“My idea is that a woman oughtn’t to stuff her head with books. You’d be much better out in the open air or doing something useful.”
“Is that your opinion?”
“Well, I should like to know why you’re always reading?”
“Sometimes to instruct myself; always to amuse myself.”
“Much instruction you’ll get out of an indecent French novel.”
Bertha without answering handed him the book and showed the title; they were the letters of Madame de Sévigné.
“Well?” he said.
“You’re no wiser, dear Edward?” she asked, with a smile: such a question in such a tone, revenged her for much. “You’re none the wiser? I’m afraid you’re very ignorant. You see I’m not reading a novel, and it is not indecent. They are the letters of a mother to her daughter, models of epistolary style and feminine wisdom.”
Bertha purposely spoke in rather formal and elaborate a manner.
“Oh,” said Edward, somewhat mystified; feeling that he had been confounded, but certain, none the less, that he was in the right. Bertha smiled provokingly.