I told her.
“Well,” said she, “I have seen two nice young men this morning; I don’t know which I like best, but I think Mr Selwyn is the more manly of the two.”
“I should think so, too, Caroline,” replied I; “Mr Selwyn is twenty-four years old, I believe, and Mr Dempster is younger, I think, than you are.”
“I did not think he was so young; but, Valerie, are we not to go to the National Gallery?”
“Yes, when Monsieur Gironac comes home to escort us; we may as well put on our bonnets, for he will be here in a few minutes.”
“Oh, Valerie, how fortunate it was that I came to Mrs Bradshaw’s,” said Caroline, “and that I met you! I should have been moped, that is certain, if I had not, but now I’m so happy—that’s Monsieur Gironac’s knock, I’m sure.”
But Caroline was wrong, for it was Mademoiselle Chabot, of whom I have before spoken, who made her appearance. Mademoiselle Chabot was an acquaintance of Madame Gironac, and it was through my having become intimate with her, that I obtained the teaching of Mrs Bradshaw’s. Adèle Chabot was a very pretty person, thoroughly French, and dressed with great taste. She was the resident French teacher in Mrs Bradshaw’s establishment; and, although twenty-five years old, did not look more than eighteen; she was very amusing and rather wild, although she looked very demure. I never thought that there was anything wrong in Adèle, but, at the same time, I did not consider that Caroline would derive any good from her company, as Caroline required to be held in check as it was. But, as is usually the case, the more I attempted to check any intimacy between them, the more intimate they became. Adèle was of a good family; her father had fallen at Montmartre, when the allies entered Paris after the Battle of Waterloo: but the property left was very small to be divided among a large family, and consequently Adèle had first gone out as a governess at Paris, and ultimately accepted the situation she now held. She spoke English remarkably well, indeed, better than I ever heard it spoken by a Frenchwoman, and everybody said so as well as me.
“Well, Adèle, I thought you were at Brighton,” said Caroline.
“I was yesterday, and I am here to-day; I am come to dine with you,” replied Adèle, taking off her bonnet and shawl, and smoothing her hair before the glass. “Where’s Madame Gironac?”
“Gone out to give a lesson in flower-making,” replied I. “Yes, she is like the little busy bees, always on the wing, and, as the hymn says, ‘How neat she spread her wax!’ and Monsieur, where is he?”