I think in Madame Beck’s eyes the five letters found a certain favour. One day after she had borrowed them of me (in speaking of so suave a little woman, one ought to use suave terms), I caught her examining me with a steady contemplative gaze, a little puzzled, but not at all malevolent. It was during that brief space between lessons, when the pupils turned out into the court for a quarter of an hour’s recreation; she and I remained in the first classe alone: when I met her eye, her thoughts forced themselves partially through her lips.

“ Il y a ,” said she, “ quelquechose de bien remarquable dans le caractère Anglais .” 137

“How, Madame?”

She gave a little laugh, repeating the word “how” in English.

“ Je ne saurais vous dire ‘how;’ mais, enfin, les Anglais ont des idées à eux, en amitié, en amour, en tout. Mais au moins il n’est pas besoin de les surveiller ,” 138 she added, getting up and trotting away like the compact little pony she was.

“Then I hope,” murmured I to myself, “you will graciously let alone my letters for the future.”