others could penetrate her heart, and moderate its vain-glorious exultation.
Not at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on all sides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, she spread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtseying with mock respect, she said:
"I would not be you for a kingdom."
The remark was too naïve to rouse anger; I merely said:
"Very good."
"And what would you give to be ME?" she inquired.
"Not a bad sixpence—strange as it may sound," I replied. "You are but a poor creature."
"You don't think so in your heart."
"No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I only occasionally turn you over in my brain."
"Well, but," said she, in an expostulatory tone, "just listen to the difference of our positions, and then see how happy am I, and how miserable are you."
"Go on; I listen."
"In the first place: I am the daughter of a
