Now, Miss Ginevra Fanshawe (such was this young person’s name) only substituted this word “ chose ” in temporary oblivion of the real name. It was a habit she had: “ chose ” came in at every turn in her conversation⁠—the convenient substitute for any missing word in any language she might chance at the time to be speaking. French girls often do the like; from them she had caught the custom. “ Chose ,” however, I found in this instance, stood for Villette⁠—the great capital of the great kingdom of Labassecour.

“Do you like Villette?” I asked.

“Pretty well. The natives, you know, are intensely stupid and vulgar; but there are some nice English families.”

“Are you in a school?”

“Yes.”

“A good one?”

“Oh, no! horrid: but I go out every Sunday, and care nothing about the maîtresses or the professeurs , or the élèves , and send lessons au diable (one daren’t say that in English, you know, but it sounds quite right in French); and thus I get on charmingly⁠ ⁠… You are laughing at me again?”

“No⁠—I am only smiling at my own thoughts.”

“What are they?” (Without waiting for an answer)⁠—“Now, do tell me where you are going.”