my good Prosper; I am the embellishment! I live for nothing, and I
straighten up the accent of the prettiest English lips. The English lips
are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough of them are so to make it a
gaining bargain for me.

Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three separate
pairs. The owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays extra. My
cousin doesn't give me a sou of the money; but I make bold, nevertheless,
to say that my trouble is remunerated. But I am well, very well, with
the proprietors of the two other pairs. One of them is a little
Anglaise, of about twenty--a little _figure de keepsake_; the most
adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I ever beheld. She is
decorated all over with beads and bracelets and embroidered dandelions;
but her principal decoration consists of the softest little gray eyes in
the world, which rest upon you with a profundity of confidence--a
confidence that I really feel some compunction in betraying. She has a
tint as white as this sheet of paper, except just in the middle of each
cheek, where it passes into the purest and most transparent, most liquid,
carmine. Occasionally this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her
face--by which I mean that she blushes--as softly as the mark of your
breath on the window-pane.

Like every Anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public; but it is
very easy to see that when no one is looking _elle ne demande qu'a se
laisser aller_! Whenever she wants it I am always there, and I have
given her to understand that she can count upon me. I have reason to
believe that she appreciates the assurance, though I am bound in honesty
to confess that with her the situation is a little less advanced than
with the others. _Que voulez-vous_? The English are heavy, and the
Anglaises move slowly, that's all. The movement, however, is