“Javvey, tavvey, lavvey, nouzaviong, vouzaviez, ilzong. Do you know what that means?”
“I can guess,” replied her friend, calmly.
“You want ter laugh,” she said, suddenly; “you’re bustin’, I can see, but wait till I’m gone. I hate to be larfed at.”
The Judge guiltily hung his head.
“Now,” she said, in a businesslike way, “I don’t want yer for teachin’ me French nor langwidges, nor grammar. What I wants is ladyness from yer. Come on, now, what’s the fust thing in bein’ a lady?”
She was intensely, terribly in earnest, and the Judge braced up.
“Well,” he said, seriously, “first of all, before I can give you one single word of advice, I want to know what you intend to make of young ladyhood—providing you attain to it.”
“Don’t understand all yer big words,” she said, “but I catches yer meanin’. What do I want to be a lady for? I wants to be a lady so as to make you an’ other men stand round.”
“Very good,” murmured the Judge; “but go on, pray.”
“What does you care for me now?” she said, disdainfully. “My name’s mud to you. I’m a River Street rat. Aint it so?”