“That may be: but in England one is often obliged to put up with the society of the middle classes, or at best with a sort of respectable gentry; while in France we never associate with anything less than a count or a marquis. My aunt would not speak to a bourgeois! She is descended from the Princess of M——y, which, you know, is one of the most ancient families of France; and likes Paris so much, that I don’t think she will ever return to the United States. She can’t bear America!”
“She would not be wise if she did,” observed my friend, half ironically; “she receives a great deal more attention there than she would at home.”
“So do all our women,” observed the lawyer. “Our people do not know how to treat them, and our women do not know how to take advantage of their position; they are only fit ‘to suckle fools and chronicle small beer.’”
“Very well brought in by our professional friend!” cried the Bostonian. “I say, Tom! what did your mother say when you left home to practise law in this city?”
“She gave me her blessing, and told me, ‘Go, my son, and improve the talent God has given you, and you cannot fail to make money.’ It was very kind in her, poor soul! she little expected I would draw on her regularly every quarter.”
“But how do you spend your time,” demanded the Bostonian, “if you do not practise law?”
“Literature, literature!” exclaimed the lawyer, emptying his glass. “We all dabble, more or less, in that.”
“True,” rejoined the Bostonian, “I forgot all about literature.”
“What o’clock is it?” demanded the child of Paris, stretching himself with the air of an homme blasé.
“Nearly ten,” answered my friend.