Augusta meanwhile seated herself comfortably by my bedside.
“Horrible,” she said—“horrible! but for the prospect of pleasing him—”
I did not pretend to misunderstand her.
“But you are really getting on splendidly, Augusta,” I said.
“Ah, yes! I should be a brute indeed did I do otherwise. And perhaps when I am sufficiently acquainted with the German tongue I may find out some of its beauties—or, rather, the beauties of its literature, for the language itself is all guttural and horrible—worse than French.”
“But surely French is very dainty?” I said.
“Dainty!” said Augusta, with scorn. “What one wants is a language of thought—a language that will show sentiment, that will reveal the depth of nature; and how, I ask you, can you find it in that frippery the French tongue?”
“I do not know,” I answered somewhat wearily.
“I like Molière and the writings of some of the other great French poets very much indeed.”
“Well,” said Augusta, “I have got to study a great quantity of German for to-morrow morning. I must go into my room and tackle it. The Professor said I was not to write to him, but I keep his treasured letter near my heart; but if you are writing home you might say that Augusta is not ungrateful. Do you ever have the great privilege of writing direct to your father?”