"We were not allowed to read fiction at Madame Marot's," Miss Lovel
answered simply. "Anything in the way of an English story is a treat when
one has had nothing to read but Racine and Telemaque for about six years of
one's life."

"The Inimical Brothers, and Iphigenia; Athalie, as performed before Louis
Quatorze, by the young ladies of St. Cyr, and so on. Well, I confess
there are circumstances under which even Racine might become a bore; and
Telemaque has long been a synonym for dreariness and dejection of mind.
You have not seen Rachel? No, I suppose not. She was a great creature, and
conjured the dry bones into living breathing flesh. And Madame Marot's
establishment, where you were so hardly treated, is a school, I conclude?"

"Yes, it is a school at Belforet, near Paris. I have been there a long
time, and am going home now to keep house for papa."

"Indeed! And is your journey a long one? Are we to be travelling companions
for some time to come?"

"I am going rather a long way--to Holborough."

"I am very glad to hear that, for I am going farther myself, to the outer
edge of Yorkshire, where I believe I am to do wonderful execution upon the
birds. A fellow I know has taken a shooting-box yonder, and writes me most
flourishing accounts of the sport. I know Holborough a little, by the way.
Does your father live in the town?"

"O, no; papa could never endure to live in a small country town. Our house
is a couple of miles away--Arden Court; perhaps you know it?"