“Which of whom, sir?”
“The Curate of Meudon, or the Dean of St. Patrick's, or honest Tom, or Mr. Fielding?”
“And what were they, sir?”
“They! Why, they wrote books.”
“Indeed, sir. I never heard of either one of 'em,” said Harry, hanging down his head. “I fear my book-learning was neglected at home, sir. My brother had read every book that ever was wrote, I think. He could have talked to you about 'em for hours together.”
With this little speech Mrs. Lambert's eyes turned to her daughter, and Miss Theo cast hers down and blushed.
“Never mind, honesty is better than books any day, Mr. Warrington!” cried the jolly Colonel. “You may go through the world very honourably without reading any of the books I have been talking of, and some of them might give you more pleasure than profit.”
“I know more about horses and dogs than Greek and Latin, sir. We most of us do in Virginia,” said Mr. Warrington.
“You are like the Persians; you can ride and speak the truth.”
“Are the Prussians very good on horseback, sir? I hope I shall see their king and a campaign or two, either with 'em or against 'em,” remarked Colonel Lambert's guest. Why did Miss Theo look at her mother, and why did that good woman's face assume a sad expression?