"Oh, that's very true," I exclaimed, my eyes sparkling, glad, somehow, to hear him say it. "It is what I have been trying to express to Mrs. Paler."
"She has got her head full of some nonsensical fear that her children should be turned into Roman Catholics—I suppose because we are in a Catholic country," he resumed, looking at his wife through his glasses. "She'll talk about it till she turns into one herself, if she doesn't mind; that's the way the mania begins. There's no more fear of sensible people turning Catholics than there is of my turning Dutchman: as to the children, the notion is simply absurd. And what sort of weather have you had at Nulle, Miss Hereford, since we left it?"
"Not very fine. Yesterday it poured with rain all day."
"Ah. That would make it pleasant for travelling, though."
"Yes: it laid the dust."
"Did you travel alone?"
"Oh, no; the Miss Barlieus would not have allowed it. It is not etiquette in France for a young lady to go out even for a walk alone. An acquaintance of Miss Barlieus, Madame Bernadotte, who was journeying to Paris, accompanied me."
"Well, I hope you will be comfortable here," he concluded.
"Thank you; I hope so."
"And look here, I'll give you a hint. Just you get the upper hand of those children at once, or you'll never do it. They are like so many untrained colts."