“Oh, that must be a mistake,” I answered, “for don’t you see the date MDCLI?” which was the only part of the inscription I could read.
“The writing says that the gateway was restored in that year,” said Conny, quietly.
“What! do you understand Latin?” I asked.
“No. Mr. Curling told me.”
My aunt tossed her head, and exclaimed, “I am sure Mr. Curling can’t read Latin.”
“Indeed he can!” returned Conny, looking for an instant with her deep, deep eyes, at her mamma, and then letting them drop with a little smile.
“James, drive on!” cried Mrs. Hargrave.
Had Mr. Curling’s head been under our wheels, I believe at that moment I should have sat through the jump of the carriage unmoved. Was my aunt’s suspicion right? did Conny care about that lean young man at the bank? Suppose he could read Latin—what then? I daresay he had bragged of this solitary achievement to my cousin, and she had mentioned it first to pique her mother.
I looked at her, and then at my aunt, and then pretended to fall into a rapture over an old gable-peaked house with latticed windows, and a porch surmounted by an effigy of Time. The town abounded in venerable structures of this kind; but the builders were busy in the suburbs, and the country outside was dotted with little stucco residences, squares of plaster, coloured like gingerbread—advertised as charming homes for newly-married couples—poor wretches! My relations received several bows during our progress through the streets, and—I say this without vanity—I was a good deal stared at. I know nothing more ludicrous than bucolic curiosity. I was incessantly laughing to see some old man or woman turn slowly to look after us, as if our carriage were a magnet, and their noses were steel, and gaze until we were out of sight.
“How do the people amuse themselves all day long?” I asked.