“I am afraid we are not qualified, you know,” said Mrs. Hudson. “We are told that you must know so much, that you must have read so many books. Our taste has not been cultivated. When I was a young lady at school, I remember I had a medal, with a pink ribbon, for ‘proficiency in Ancient History’—the seven kings, or is it the seven hills? and Quintus Curtius and Julius Caesar and—and that period, you know. I believe I have my medal somewhere in a drawer, now, but I have forgotten all about the kings. But after Roderick came to Italy we tried to learn something about it. Last winter Mary used to read ‘Corinne’ to me in the evenings, and in the mornings she used to read another book, to herself. What was it, Mary, that book that was so long, you know,—in fifteen volumes?”
“It was Sismondi’s Italian Republics,” said Mary, simply.
Rowland could not help laughing; whereupon Mary blushed. “Did you finish it?” he asked.
“Yes, and began another—a shorter one—Roscoe’s Leo the Tenth.”
“Did you find them interesting?”
“Oh yes.”
“Do you like history?”
“Some of it.”
“That ‘s a woman’s answer! And do you like art?”
She paused a moment. “I have never seen it!”