I am not writing my eulogium for the Academy; I will admit it was
unpardonably imbecile, but I told it her. If you had been there--
and seen her, ravishingly pretty and little, a baby in years and
mind--and heard her talking like a book, with so much of schoolroom
propriety in her manner, with such an innocent despair in the
matter--you would probably have told her yours. She repeated it
after me.
'I shall pray for you all my life,' she said. 'Every night, when I
retire to rest, the last thing I shall do is to remember you by
name.'
Presently I succeeded in winning from her her tale, which was much
what I had anticipated: a tale of a schoolhouse, a walled garden,
a fruit-tree that concealed a bench, an impudent raff posturing in
church, an exchange of flowers and vows over the garden wall, a
silly schoolmate for a confidante, a chaise and four, and the most
immediate and perfect disenchantment on the part of the little
lady. 'And there is nothing to be done!' she wailed in conclusion.
'My error is irretrievable, I am quite forced to that conclusion.
O, Monsieur de Saint-Yves! who would have thought that I could have
been such a blind, wicked donkey!'
I should have said before--only that I really do not know when it
came in--that we had been overtaken by the two post-boys, Rowley
and Mr.
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