“Oh, I don’t know,” answered her nephew, rather sulkily; “nothing much, I guess.”
“My darling Paul,” cried his mother in horrified reproach, “what do you mean? Tell Aunt Kate at once about all the beautiful books you have read since you have been ill. He reads French just as well as English, you know, Kate. You must hear him to-morrow. What was that interesting story you were reading on the train to-day, Paul?”
“Sans Famille,” said Paul, pronouncing the words with a decidedly English accent.
“Indeed?” said Aunt Kate. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I didn’t pay much attention to it,” returned Paul, unblushingly; “I hate French.”
Aunt Kate smiled sarcastically, and even Grandma’s stern face relaxed a little, but Paul’s mother looked really pained.
“Don’t notice him,” she said apologetically. “Like all sensitive children, he objects to showing off. He really adores his French books.”
Paul grew suddenly scarlet.
“I do not!” he proclaimed loudly. “I don’t mind showing off, but I hate French books, and most English ones, too.”
“That will do, Paul,” said Grandma, who could not endure impertinence even from her only grandson. “Children who speak in that tone are sent away from the table.”