nel ten times, alone; but then I take care never to be long alone: I always make friends".
"You will scarcely make many friends this voyage, I think" (glancing at the Watson group, who were now laughing and making a great deal of noise on deck).
"Not of those odious men and women", said she: "such people should be steerage passengers. Are you going to school?"
"No".
"Where are you going?"
"I have not the least idea—beyond, at least, the port of Boue-Marine".
She stared, then carelessly ran on:
"I am going to school. Oh, the number of foreign schools I have been at in my life! And yet I am quite an ignoramus. I know nothing—nothing in the world—I assure you; except that I play and dance beautifully,—and French and German of course I know, to speak; but I can't read or write them very well. Do you know they wanted me to translate a page of an easy German book into English the other day, and I couldn't do it. Papa was so mortified: he says it looks as if M. de Bassompierre—my god-papa who pays all my school-bills—had thrown away all his money. And then, in matters of information—in history, geography, arithmetic, and so on, I am quite a baby; and I write English so badly—such spelling and grammar, they tell me. Into the bargain I have quite forgotten my religion; they call me a Protestant, you know, but really I am not sure whether I am one or not: I don't well know the difference between Romanism and Protestantism. However, I don't in the least care for that. I was a Lutheran once at Bonn—dear Bonn!—charming Bonn!—where there were so many handsome students. Every girl in our school had an admirer; they knew our hours for walking out, and almost always passed us on the promenade. 'Schönes Mädchen', we used to hear them say. I was excessively happy at Bonn!"
"And where are you now?" I inquired.
"Oh! at—chose", said she.
Now Miss Ginerva Fanshawe (such was this young person's name) only substituted this word "chose" in temporary oblivion of the real name. It was a habit she had: "chose"
