"And where are you now?" I inquired.
"Oh! at—chose," said she.
Now Miss Ginevra 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" came in at every turn in her conversation—the convenient substitute for any missing word in any language she might chance at the time to be speaking. French girls often do the like; from them she had caught the custom. "Chose," however, I found, in this instance, stood for Villette—the great capital of the great kingdom of Labassecour.
"Do you like Villette?" I asked.
"Pretty well. The natives, you know, are intensely stupid and vulgar; but there are some nice English families."
"Are you in a school?"
"Yes."
"A good one?"
"Oh no! horrid: but I go out every Sunday, and care nothing about the maîtresses or the professeurs, or the élèves, and send lessons au diable; (one daren't say that in English, you know, but it sounds quite right in French,) and thus I get on
