"My dear, that is a horrid thing to say."
"Well, it's true," answered Christian. "It's much less dull than English history—English history, I mean, as it's written. I wish I could make stories out of it. Wouldn't you all gape and scream and jump about, and feel that you must fight like anything, if you listened to my stories? Think of 'John of Gaunt'; and think of the 'Black Prince'; and oh! think of 'Agincourt' and the 'Field of the Cloth of Gold.' Oh, dear! oh, dear! couldn't I make the whole thing shine? And wouldn't I just? But English history as it is written is very, very dull."
"I don't agree with you. When you are older you will know that English history written by such men as Macaulay and Froude is most beautiful and thrilling. Now I have news for you."
"You do look strange!" said Christian; "what can be the matter?"
"I have just been down to see your mother."
"Oh, can I see her?" said Christian, a swift change passing over her face. "Can I? May I? I want so badly to ask her a question."
"She is going out; she does not wish to be disturbed."
"Oh, I know all about that."
"You know about it?"