"Mrs. Bretton," said the Count, "I want to get rid of my daughter--to
send her to school. Do you know of any good school?"
"There is Lucy's place--Madame Beck's."
"Miss Snowe is in a school?"
"I am a teacher," I said, and was rather glad of the opportunity of
saying this. For a little while I had been feeling as if placed in a
false position. Mrs. Bretton and son knew my circumstances; but the
Count and his daughter did not. They might choose to vary by some
shades their hitherto cordial manner towards me, when aware of my
grade in society. I spoke then readily: but a swarm of thoughts I had
not anticipated nor invoked, rose dim at the words, making me sigh
involuntarily. Mr. Home did not lift his eyes from his breakfast-plate
for about two minutes, nor did he speak; perhaps he had not caught the
words--perhaps he thought that on a confession of that nature,
politeness would interdict comment: the Scotch are proverbially proud;
and homely as was Mr. Home in look, simple in habits and tastes, I
have all along intimated that he was not without his share of the
national quality. Was his a pseudo pride? was it real dignity? I leave
the question undecided in its wide sense. Where it concerned me
individually I can only answer: then, and always, he showed himself a
true-hearted gentleman.
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