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“Nothing to boast of,” I said. “I am studying a little.”

“Ah, I am glad to hear that. You are gathering up a little European culture; that’s what we lack, you know, at home. No individual can do much, of coarse. But you must not be discouraged; every little counts.”

“I see that you, at least, are doing your part,” I rejoined gallantly, dropping my eyes on my companion’s learned volume.

“Yes, I frankly admit that I am fond of study. There is no one, after all, like the Germans. That is, for facts. For opinions I by no means always go with them. I form my opinions myself. I am sorry to say, however,” Mrs. Church continued, “that I can hardly pretend to diffuse my acquisitions. I am afraid I am sadly selfish; I do little to irrigate the soil. I belong–I frankly confess it–to the class of absentees.”

“I had the pleasure, last evening,” I said, “of making the acquaintance of your daughter. She told me you had been a long time in Europe.”

Mrs. Church smiled benignantly. “Can one ever be too long? We shall never leave it.”

“Your daughter won’t like that,” I said, smiling too.

“Has she been taking you into her confidence? She is a more sensible young lady than she sometimes appears. I have taken great pains with her; she is really–I may be permitted to say it–superbly educated.”

“She seemed to me a very charming girl,” I rejoined. “And I learned that she speaks four languages.”

“It is not only that,” said Mrs. Church, in a tone which suggested that this might be a very superficial species of culture. “She has made what we call de fortes etudes–such as I suppose you are making now. She is familiar with the results of modern science; she keeps pace with the new historical school.”

“Ah,” said I, “she has gone much farther than I!”

“You doubtless think I exaggerate, and you force me, therefore, to mention the fact that I am able to speak of such matters with a certain intelligence.”

“That is very evident,” I said. “But your daughter thinks you ought to take her home.” I began to fear, as soon as I had uttered these words, that they savoured of treachery to the young lady, but I was reassured by seeing that they produced on her mother’s placid countenance no symptom whatever of irritation.

“My daughter has her little theories,” Mrs. Church observed; “she has, I may say, her illusions. And what wonder! What would youth be without its illusions? Aurora has a theory that she would be happier in New York, in Boston, in Philadelphia, than in one of the charming old cities in which our lot is cast. But she is mistaken, that is all. We must allow our children their illusions, must we not? But we must watch over them.”

Although she herself seemed proof against discomposure, I found something vaguely irritating in her soft, sweet positiveness.

“American cities,” I said, “are the paradise of young girls.”

“Do you mean,” asked Mrs. Church, “that the young girls who come from those places are angels?”

“Yes,” I said, resolutely.

“This young lady–what is her odd name?–with whom my daughter has formed a somewhat precipitate acquaintance: is Miss Ruck an angel? But I won’t force you to say anything uncivil. It would be too cruel to make a single exception.”

“Well,” said I, “at any rate, in America young girls have an easier lot. They have much more liberty.”

My companion laid her hand for an instant on my arm. “My dear young friend, I know America, I know the conditions of life there, so well. There is perhaps no subject on which I have reflected more than on our national idiosyncrasies.”

“I am afraid you don’t approve of them,” said I, a little brutally.