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“I am not ill, thank you,” said Lady Augusta, taking the smelling bottle.

“But don’t tell me dat,” said mademoiselle: “I saw you walking out of de window wid dat man, and I know dis is some new demele wid him. Come, point de secret, mon enfant. Has not he being giving you one good lecture?”

“Lecture!” said Lady Augusta, rising with becoming spirit: “no, mademoiselle, I am not to be lectured by any body.”

“No, to be sure; dat is what I say, and, surtout, not by a lover. Quel homme! why I would not have him to pay his court to me for all de world. Why, pauvre petite, he has made you look ten years older ever since he began to fall in love wid you. Dis what you call a lover in England? Bon, why, I know noting of de matter, if he be one bit in love wid you, mon enfant.”

“Oh, as to that, he certainly is in love with me: whatever other faults he has, I must do him that justice.”

” Justice! Oh, let him have justice, de tout mon caeur; but I say, if he be a man in love, he is de oddest man in love I ever happen to see; he eat, drink, sleep, talk, laugh, se possede tout comme un autre. Bon Dieu! I would not give noting at all myself for such a sort of a lover. Mon enfant, dis is not de way I would wish to see you loved; dis is not de way no man ought for to dare for to love you.”

“And how ought I to be loved?” asked Lady Augusta, impatiently.

” La belle question! Eh! don’t every body, de stupidest person in de world, know how dey ought to be love? Mais passionnement, eperdument –dere is a–a je ne sais quoi dat infailliblement distinguish de true lover from de false.”

“Then,” said Lady Augusta, “you really don’t think that Mr. Mountague loves me?”

“Tink!” replied mademoiselle, “I don’t tink about it; but have not I said enough? Open your eyes; make your own comparaisons.”

Before Lady Augusta had made her comparisons, a knock at the door from her maid came to let her know that Lord George was waiting.

“Ah! milord George! I won’t keep you den: va t’en.”

“But now, do you know, it was only because I just said that I was going out with Lord George that Mr. Mountague made all this rout.”

“Den let him make his rout; qu’importe? Miladi votre chere mere make no objections. Quelle impertinence! If he was milord duc he could not give himself no more airs. Va, man enfant –Dis a lover! Quel homme, quel tyran! and den, of course, when he grows to be a husband, he will be worserer and worserer, and badderer and badderer, when he grows to be your husband.”

“Oh,” cried Lady Augusta, snatching up her gloves hastily, “my husband he shall never be, I am determined. So now I’ll give him his coup de grace.”

” Bon! ” said mademoiselle, following her pupil, “and I must not miss to be by, for I shall love to see dat man mortify.”

“You are going then?” said Mr. Mountague, gravely, as she passed.

“Going, going, going, gone!” cried Lady Augusta, who, tripping carelessly by, gave her hand to the sulky lord; then springing into the phaeton, said as usual–“I know, my lord, you’ll break my neck;” at the same time casting a look at Mr. Mountague, which seemed to say–“I hope you’ll break your heart, at least.”