“So it seems,” I said, maliciously; “but does he know that you call him your Italian?”
“Now, don’t be such a wicked old quiz,” said Clara. “You know what I mean—my Italian lessons. We have nearly gone through ‘I Miei Prigioni’, and it does seem so romantic. You might almost fancy he was Silvio Pellico himself. I hope you will like him.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, mockingly. “I’m sure I do,” said Clara; “I said like, didn’t I?”
I was about to reply with some sharp saying, but just then I began thinking about the Reverend Theodore Saint Purre and his sad, patient face, and that seemed to stop me.
“But I know whom you will like,” said Clara. “Just stop till some one comes—you’ll see.”
“And who may that be, you little goose?” I cried, contemptuously.
“Monsieur Achille de Tiraille, young ladies,” squeaked Miss Furness. “I hope the exercises are ready.”
Clara looked at me with her handsome eyes twinkling, and then we hurried in, or rather Clara hurried me in; and we went into the classroom. Almost directly after, the French master was introduced by Miss Sloman, who frowned at me, and motioned to me to remain standing. I had risen when he entered, and then resumed my seat; for I believe Miss Sloman took a dislike to me from the first, because I laughed upon the day when she overset the little table while performing her act of deportment.
But I thought no more of Miss Sloman just then, for I knew that Clara’s eyes were upon me, and I could feel the hot blood flushing up in my cheeks and tingling in my forehead; while I knew too—nay, I could feel, that another pair of eyes were upon me, eyes that I had seen in the railway carriage, at the station, in my dreams; and I quite shivered as Miss Sloman led me up to the front of a chair where some one was sitting, and I heard her cracked-bell voice say,—
“The new pupil, Monsieur Achille: Miss Bozerne.”