“I don’t mind what strangers think of me—much,” said Rosamond.—“At least you will allow, mamma, that I have reason to be satisfied, if only those who do not know me should form an unfavourable opinion of my judgment—and, after all, ma’am, of the two classes of people, those who ‘never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one,’ and those who never did a foolish thing, and never said a wise one, would not you rather that I should belong to the latter class?”
“Certainly, if I were reduced to the cruel alternative: but is there an unavoidable necessity for your belonging to either class?”
“I will consider of it, ma’am,” said Rosamond: “in the meantime, Caroline, you will allow that M. de Tourville is very agreeable?”
“Agreeable!” repeated Caroline; “such a selfish being? Have you forgotten his attempting to jump into the boat, at the hazard of oversetting it, and of drowning my father and Godfrey, who went out to save him—and when my father warned him—and promised to return for him—selfish, cowardly creature!”
“Oh! poor man, he was so frightened, that he did not know what he was doing—he was not himself.”
“You mean he was himself,” said Caroline.
“You are very ungrateful, Caroline,” cried Rosamond; “for I am sure M. de Tourville admires you extremely—yes, in spite of that provoking, incredulous smile, I say he does admire you exceedingly.”
“And if he did,” replied Caroline, “that would make no difference in my opinion of him.”
“I doubt that,” said Rosamond: “I know a person’s admiring me would make a great difference in my opinion of his taste and judgment—and how much more if he had sense enough to admire you!”
Rosamond paused, and stood for some minutes silent in reverie.