"By Jove!" ejaculated Tom Pynsent, in extremity of astonishment, "by all the saints and holy women, what are we to do at Paris, my darling girl?"
"Just to see Paris, my dear Tom, and pass a few weeks there."
"I think I see myself in Paris, d—n me!" cried her lover, excited something beyond his usual subdued language in Anna Maria's presence: "the Frenchmen will hoot me through the streets; why, we can't manage a sentence in French between us!"
"We can hire somebody to speak for us, dear Tom, and every one speaks French now, except ourselves. I want to see Paris, and Blucher, and, what can it signify, whether we speak English or French?"
"How shall we eat their infernal frogs and garlic, Anna Maria?" asked Tom Pynsent, with a shudder, "and, what shall we do in a great city, without knowing their jargon? My dear girl, we shall be like the babes in the wood!"
"No, no, Tom, we shall get on like other people, and Sir John Spottiswoode delights in Paris; he wishes his mother and sister to join him, Penelope says. We shall find him out; and, then if you dislike Paris, we can return home, you know."
"I never was at sea in my life, Anna Maria; I never was even upon the Severn. Deuce take it, I shall be like the hounds at fault, and you, my poor girl, will want to get back to Shropshire."
"No, I shall not," said Miss Wetheral; "say, Tom, you will take me to Paris!"
"I'll take you to the world's end, my darling, if you fancy it; how is this little arm? I'm not fit to take charge of a creature like you, with my rough ways, but you shall have all your little whims gratified."