I have some confidence in you, Clary," Mr. Lovel went on, with a smile
that was almost affectionate. "You look like a sensible girl; a little
impulsive, I daresay; but knowledge of the world--which is an uncommonly
hard world for you and me--will tone that down in good time. You are
accomplished, I hope. Madame Marot wrote me a most flourishing account
of your attainments; but one never knows how much to believe of a
schoolmistress's analysis."
"I worked very hard, papa; all the harder because I was so anxious to
come home; and I fancied I might shorten my exile a little by being very
industrious."
"Humph! You give yourself a good character. You sing and play, I suppose?"
"Yes, papa. But I am fonder of art than of music."
"Ah, art is very well as a profession; but amateur art--French plum-box
art--is worse than worthless. However, I am glad you can amuse yourself
somehow; and I daresay, if you have to turn governess by-and-by, that sort
of thing will be useful. You have the usual smattering of languages, of
course?"
"Yes, papa. We read German and Italian on alternate days at Madame
Marot's."
"I _promessi Sposi_, and so on, no doubt. There is a noble Tasso in the
bookcase yonder, and a fine old Petrarch, with which you may keep up your
Italian. You might read a little to me of an evening sometimes. I should
not mind it much."
"And I should like it very much, papa," Clarissa answered eagerly.
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