he will be laughed at no longer. I am sorry to have brought him here, for in less than twenty-four hours he was spoiled."
"How spoiled?"
"I daren't tell you as, perhaps, your aunt would not like it."
"I don't think I should tell her, but, perhaps, I should not have asked."
"Oh, yes! you should; and as you wish to know I will make no mystery of it. Madame Lambertini took a fancy to him; they passed the night together, and in token of the satisfaction he gave her she has given him the ridiculous nickname of 'Count Sixtimes.' That's all. I am vexed about it, as my friend was no profligate."
Astonishment—and very reasonable astonishment—will be expressed that I dared to talk in this way to a girl fresh from a convent; but I should have been astonished myself at the bare idea of any respectable girl coming to Lambertini's house. I fixed my gaze on my fair companion, and saw the blush of shame mounting over her pretty face; but I thought that might have more than one meaning.
Judge of my surprise when, two minutes afterwards, I heard this question:
"But what has 'Sixtimes' got to do with sleeping with Madame Lambertini?"
"My dear young lady, the explanation is perfectly simple: my friend in a single night did what a husband often takes six weeks to do."
"And you think me silly enough to tell my aunt of what we have been talking? Don't believe it."
"But there's another thing I am sorry about."
"You shall tell me what that is directly."
The reason which obliged the charming niece to retire for a few minutes may be guessed without our going into explanations. When she came back she went behind her aunt's chair, her eyes fixed on Tiretta, and then came up to me, and taking her seat again, said:
"Now, what else is it that you are sorry about?" her eyes sparkling as she asked the question.
"May I tell you, do you think?"
"You have said so much already, that I don't think you need have any scruples in telling me the rest."
"Very good: you must know, then, that this very day and in my presence he– -her."
"If that displeased you, you must be jealous."
"Possibly, but the fact is that I was humbled by a circumstance I dare not tell you."
"I think you are laughing at me with your 'dare not tell you.'"
"God forbid, mademoiselle! I will confess, then, that I was humbled because Madame Lambertini made me see that my friend was taller than myself by two inches."
"Then she imposed on you, for you are taller than your friend."
"I am not speaking of that kind of tallness, but another; you know what I mean, and there my friend is really monstrous."
"Monstrous! then what have you to be sorry about? Isn't it better not to be monstrous?"
"Certainly; but in the article we are discussing, some women, unlike you, prefer monstrosity."
"I think that's absurd of them, or rather mad; or perhaps, I have not sufficiently clear ideas on the subject to imagine what size it would be to be called monstrous; and I think it is odd that such a thing should humble you."
"You would not have thought it of me, to see me?"
"Certainly not, for when I came into the room I thought you looked a well-proportioned man, but if you are not I am sorry for you."
"I won't leave you in doubt on the subject; look for yourself, and tell me what you think."
"Why, it's you who are the monster! I declare you make me feel quite afraid."
At this she began to perspire violently, and went behind her aunt's chair. I did not stir, as I was sure she would soon come back, putting her down in my own mind as very far removed from silliness or innocence either. I supposed she wished to affect what she did not possess. I was, moreover, delighted at having taken the opportunity so well. I had punished her for having tried to impose on me; and as I had taken a great fancy to her, I was pleased that she seemed to like her punishment. As for her possession of wit, there could be no doubt on that point, for it was she who had sustained the chief part in our dialogue, and my sayings and doings were all prompted by her questions, and the persevering way in which she kept to the subject.
She had not been behind her aunt's chair for five minutes when the latter was looed. She, not knowing whom to attack, turned on her niece and said, "Get you gone, little silly, you are bringing me bad luck! Besides, it is bad manners to leave the gentleman who so kindly offered to keep you company all by himself."
The amiable niece made not answer, and came back to me smiling. "If my aunt knew," said she, "what you had done to me, she would not have accused me of bad manners."
"I can't tell you how sorry I am. I want you to have some evidence of my repentance, but all that I can do is to go. Will you be offended if I do?"
"If you leave me, my aunt will call me a dreadful stupid, and will say that I have tired you out."
"Would you like me to stay, then?"
"You can't go."
"Had you no idea what I shewed you was like till just now?"
"My ideas on the subject were inaccurate. My aunt only took me out of the convent a month ago, and I had been there since I was seven."
"How old are you now?"
"Seventeen. They tried to make me take the veil, but not having any relish for the fooleries of the cloister I refused."
"Are you vexed with me?"
"I ought to be very angry with you, but I know it was my fault, so I will only ask you to be discreet."
"Don't be afraid, if I were indiscreet I should be the first to suffer."
"You have given me a lesson which will come in useful. Stop! stop! or I will go away."
"No, keep quiet; it's done now."
I had taken her pretty hand, with which she let me do as I liked, and at last when she drew it back she was astonished to find it wanted wiping.
"What is that?"
"The most pleasant of substances, which renovates the world."
"I see you are an excellent master. Your pupils make rapid progress, and you give your lessons with such a learned air."
"Now don't be angry with me for what has happened. I should never have dared to go so far if your beauty had not inspired me."
"Am I to take that speech as a declaration of love?"
"Yes, it is bold, sweetheart, but it is sincere. If it were not, I should be unworthy both of you and of myself."
"Can I believe you?"
"Yes, with all your heart. But tell me if I may hope for your love?"
"I don't know. All I know at present is that I ought
