These are the people who ask young girls whether they have been abroad, and, on receiving an answer in the negative, remark that they envy them. If any one have the temerity to inquire why, they reply, “Because she has never seen Paris, and the first sight of Paris is something worth living for.” Beyond climate and cheapness, and being able to do as one likes, these Bohemians never can give a reason for the faith that is in them; but that they hold such faith sincerely is certain.
“Everything is so different,” they declare, if pressed on the subject; “the cooking, for instance.”
“It is, and I detest messes,” says some plain-spoken John Bull; whereupon the elderly Bohemian inquires, “whether the speaker has ever dined at Zapoli’s?” implying thereby that he is utterly ignorant of the subject about which he has been talking.
Such a woman was Miss Hope—a woman who went poking about foreign galleries, and visiting artists’ studios; who had, if her own account were to be believed, seen every modern statue in process of chiselling, who had been to every opera which ever was performed, who conscientiously believed she had exhausted Europe, who wrote home reams of letters about the Carnival and the Pope, about festivals and bull-fights, about Mont Blanc and German gaming-tables, and who, in common with most English travellers, believing the Lord had made mountains and lakes, kings, queens, popes, cardinals, musicians, actors, actresses, and painters, on purpose to amuse and improve the people of Great Britain, considered it only an act of common courtesy towards the Almighty on the part of that nation to see as much of the great Continental entertainment He had provided for the pleasure and edification of his chosen race as possible.
All this and much more had Bessie Ormson heard concerning Miss Hope. Many and various were the comments that had fallen upon her ear concerning “that funny old woman,” as she mentally called Arthur Dudley’s respected aunt. From Mrs. Piggott, who declared she hated Miss Hope as she hated “pison,” to other persons higher in the social scale—the name of one of whom, at all events, Bessie would not have cared to mention, even to herself, in her bedchamber, lest a bird of the air might carry it away—from Mrs. Piggott up, I repeat, the girl had heard stories of Miss Hope, and her heart burned within her at the sound of her name.
“I do trust I shall be at Berrie Down when your aunt arrives, Arthur,” she said; and the speech was an opportune diversion at the moment. “It has been a dream of my life to meet Miss Hope.”
“I do not imagine you would agree particularly well, if you did meet,” answered Arthur, sulkily.
“We might for a little time,” said Bessie, laughing. “Heather, do be polite, and ask me to remain until after Miss Hope’s arrival. I have heard so much of her, she seems quite like an old acquaintance.”
“From whom have you heard much of her, Bessie?” inquired Mr. Ormson; “not from me, I am confident.”
“My dearest mamma, other human beings besides yourself have been endowed by Providence with the gift of speech,” replied Bessie; but she bent as she spoke to stroke Muff—bent in order to conceal her face, though she was sitting in the shade with the cool night air blowing right in upon her.