“Of course you understand Latin, Mr. Littlepage, although you have not been at the universities?”
“As it is taught in our own colleges, Miss Mordaunt.”
“And that is sufficient to tell me what Mr. Bulstrode's quotation means—if it be proper for me to hear.”
“He would hardly presume to use even a Latin saying in your presence, that is unfit for your ear. The maxim which Mr. Bulstrode attributes to Juvenal, simply means 'that honesty is praised and starves.'”
I thought that something like displeasure settled on the fair, polished, brow of Miss Mordaunt, who, I could soon see, possessed much character and high principles for one of her tender years. She said nothing, however, though she exchanged a very meaning glance with her friend Mary Wallace. Her lips were moved, and I fancied I could trace the formation of the sounds “honesty is praised and starves!”
“And you are to be Cato I hear, Mr. Bulstrode,” cried one of the young ladies, who thought more of a scarlet coat, I fancy, than was for her own good. “How very charming! Will you play the character in regimentals or in mohair—in a modern or in an ancient dress?”
“In my robe de chambre, a little altered for the occasion, Unless St. Pinkster and his sports should suggest some more appropriate costume,” answered the young man lightly.
“Are you quite aware what feast Pinkster is?” asked Anneke, a little gravely.
Bulstrode actually changed colour, for it had never crossed his mind to inquire into the character of the holiday; and, to own the truth, the manner in which it is kept by the negroes of New York, never would enlighten him much on the subject.
“That is information for which I perceive I am now about to be indebted to Miss Mordaunt.”