"Or, what would be more to the purpose, you would work for her—as I imagine this music is destined for her?"
"Exactly so; but, Robert, do not suppose that I am still the idle fellow I used to be. I have been quite reformed here, and I am going to enter the Polytechnic School."
"How! you, who spoke of it with such horror?"
"I tell you that I am quite reformed; for the last four years, nearly, I have been living at Primini, and as everyone here is occupied, I was obliged to do like the rest. In the beginning it was exceedingly wearisome, but afterwards I took delight in the exertion, and so does everyone. Is it not so, Stephen?"
"How tall Stephen is grown," said Robert; "he was quite a little fellow, when I went away."
"You must remember that five years have passed since then, and many events have occurred; but you will have time enough to discover this, my friend, and for the present you must need refreshment and repose. Stephen, go and tell your sister that she had better order supper."
At this moment, Caroline entered the room.
"Your apartment is quite ready, Robert," she said; "shall Stephen conduct you to it, or would you rather take supper immediately?"
"Just as you please, I am quite at your disposal," replied Robert, in a ceremonious manner, corresponding, perfectly, with the extreme politeness of Caroline.
They were both of them ill at ease, infinitely more so than they would have been with total strangers, when a little constraint would have been natural. In fact, when all is real, there can be no embarrassment. It is by a false position, and not by a difficult one, that we are disconcerted. The remainder of the evening passed cheerlessly enough. Caroline, who usually diffused life and gaiety over the home circle, was constrained and silent, and took no share in the conversation; her silence reacted upon Denis, who was accustomed to laugh and jest with her: Robert reproached himself for the constraint and ennui which he seemed to have introduced into the house, and promised himself not to prolong his stay, grieved as he was to find himself like a stranger, and a troublesome stranger, in his own family. Following up his old prejudices he laid all the blame of his vexation upon Caroline. "She is still the same, whatever they may say," thought he to himself; "she yields completely to the fancy of the moment. Because she is sorry to see me—yet what harm have I ever done her?—she makes us all uncomfortable, with her intolerable, ill-humoured airs. I perceive nothing of that devotion to others—that self-denial, of which my uncle spoke in his letters. However, I never believed in it, and I was right; she is, and she always will be, a spoiled child."