With that ease with which he could at will glide into the character of the superior and elder brother, he had, without seeming to ask questions, drawn from Mary an account of her reading, her studies, her acquaintances.
‘You read French, I presume?’ he said to her, with easy negligence.
Mary coloured deeply, and then, as one who recollects one’s self, answered, gravely,—
‘No, Mr. Burr, I know no language but my own.’
‘But you should learn French, my child,’ said Burr, with that gentle dictatorship which he could at times so gracefully assume.
‘I should be delighted to learn,’ said Mary, ‘but have no opportunity.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Scudder, ‘Mary has always had a taste for study, and would be glad to improve in any way.’
‘Pardon me, madam, if I take the liberty of making a suggestion. There is a most excellent man, the Abbé Léfon, now in Newport, driven here by the political disturbances in France; he is anxious to obtain a few scholars, and I am interested that he should succeed, for he is a most worthy man.’
‘Is he a Roman Catholic?’
‘He is, madam; but there could be no manner of danger with a person so admirably instructed as your daughter. If you please to see him, madam, I will call with him some time.’