“It is not only that,” said Mrs. Church, in a tone which suggested that this might be a very superficial species of culture. “She has made what we call de fortes études—such as I suppose you are making now. She is familiar with the results of modern science; she keeps pace with the new historical school.”
“Ah,” said I, “she has gone much farther than I!”
“You doubtless think I exaggerate, and you force me, therefore, to mention the fact that I am able to speak of such matters with a certain intelligence.”
“That is very evident,” I said. “But your daughter thinks you ought to take her home.” I began to fear, as soon as I had uttered these words, that they savoured of treachery to the young lady, but I was reassured by seeing that they produced on her mother’s placid countenance no symptom whatever of irritation.
“My daughter has her little theories,” Mrs. Church observed; “she has, I may say, her illusions. And what wonder! What would youth be without its illusions? Aurora has a theory that she would be happier in New York, in Boston, in Philadelphia, than in one of the charming old cities in which our lot is cast. But she is mistaken, that is all. We must allow our children their illusions, must we not? But we must watch over them.”
Although she herself seemed proof against discomposure, I found something vaguely irritating in her soft, sweet positiveness.
“American cities,” I said, “are the paradise of young girls.”
“Do you mean,” asked Mrs. Church, “that the young girls who come from those places are angels?”
“Yes,” I said, resolutely.
“This young lady—what is her odd name?—with whom my daughter has formed a somewhat precipitate acquaintance: is Miss Ruck an angel? But I won’t force you to say anything uncivil. It would be too cruel to make a single exception.”