“I have no ideal of man,” Edith replied briefly; and, after a moment, added: “A person maybe excellent, without being ideal.” She thought a moment longer, then said: “Men and stars have to be set at a certain distance before they shine to us. I am not sure but Tennyson could make a fine hero of a poem of Dick. He has heroic qualities. I do not
analyze nor criticise my friends, but I perceive this in him: he is capable of proposing to himself an object, and following it steadily. Every one is not.”
Carl Yorke’s countenance changed. And yet he knew well that she had not dreamed of reproaching him.
“What are you studying Spanish for?” Miss Clinton inquired fretfully, one day. “You might as well learn to dance the minuet.”
“When one has so many castles in a country, one would like to know the language,” he said.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the old lady. “Don’t waste your time. No language with a guttural in it is fit for a well-bred person to speak. Besides, to speak Spanish properly, you must wear a slouched hat and a stiletto, or a ruff and feather. I have no patience with this mania for tongues. English and French are enough for any sensible person. Italian is boned turkey. What book is that you have brought in?”
“De Maistre, Les Soirées de Saint-Pétersbourg.”
Miss Clinton laughed disagreeably. “‘The prophet of the past,’ is it? Who is it says that he has ‘une grande vigueur, non pas de raison, mais de raisonnement’? Are you studying sophistry or Ultramontanism? A propos, there are pretty doings in that absurd little town where your people live. That ungrateful paper which you used to edit has been abusing your father like a pickpocket, on Edith’s account, I suppose. You wouldn’t tell me, but Bird found out; and she says that he doesn’t dare stir outdoors.”
“It is not true that he is afraid,” Carl said; “but he is insulted. In Seaton, ‘the pen is mightier than the sword,’ without doubt. I would like to see it tried if the horse-whip might