'What name, dearest cheaile?'
'Calomniatrice—that is an insult.'
'Why, my most foolish little Maud, we may say rogue, and a thousand other little words in play which we do not say seriously.'
'You are not playing—you never play—you are angry, and you hate me,' I exclaimed, vehemently.
'Oh, fie!—wat shame! Do you not perceive, dearest cheaile, how much education you still need? You are proud, little demoiselle; you must become, on the contrary, quaite humble. Je ferai baiser le babouin à vous—ha, ha, ha! I weel make a you to kees the monkey. You are too proud, my dear cheaile.'
'I am not such a fool as I was at Knowl,' I said; 'you shall not terrify me here. I will tell my uncle the whole truth,' I said.
'Well, it may be that is the best,' she replied, with provoking coolness.
'You think I don't mean it?'
'Of course you do,' she replied.
'And we shall see what my uncle thinks of it.'