"What so interests you, /ma seuur/?--the last novel by Balzac, no doubt?"

Beatrice started, and, looking up, showed eyes that were full of tears.
"Oh, no! no picture of miserable, vicious, Parisian life. This is
beautiful; there is soul here."

Randal took up the book which the marchesa laid down; it was the same
which had charmed the circle at Hazeldean, charmed the innocent and
fresh-hearted, charmed now the wearied and tempted votaress of the world.

"Hum," murmured Randal; "the parson was right. This is power,--a sort of
a power."

"How I should like to know the author! Who can he be? Can you guess?"

"Not I. Some old pedant in spectacles."

"I think not, I am sure not. Here beats a heart I have ever sighed to
find, and never found."

"Oh, /la naive enfant!/" cried the count; "comme son imagination s'egare
en reves enchantes. And to think that while you talk like an Arcadian,
you are dressed like a princess."

"Ah, I forgot--the Austrian ambassador's. I shall not go to-night. This
book unfits me for the artificial world."

"Just as you will, my sister. I shall go. I dislike the man, and he me;
but ceremonies before men!"