The situation was new
to her; and when she dropped her confused eyes beneath his unexpected
gaze, she marvelled within herself at the ease with which she had
just taken up the cause of Lord Berrington, and the difficulty she
had found to summon one word as a repellant to the unmerited attack
on the man before her.
Euphemia cared nothing about Lord Berrington; to her his faults or
his virtues were alike indifferent; and forgetting that civility
demanded some reply to Miss Beaufort's last observation, or rather
taking advantage of the tolerated privilege usurped by many high-bred
people of being ill-bred, when and how they pleased, she returned to
Thaddeus, and said with a forced smile--
"Mr. Constantine, I don't like your opinion upon the ode I showed to
you; I think it a very absurd opinion; or perhaps you did not
understand me rightly?"
Miss Beaufort took up a book, that her unoccupied attention might not
disturb their studies.
Euphemia resumed, with a more natural dimple, and touching his glove
with the rosy points of her fingers, said,
"You are stupid at translation."
Thaddeus colored, and sat uneasily; he knew not how to evade this
direct though covert attack.
"I am a bad poet, madam. Indeed, it would be dangerous even for a
good one to attempt the same path with Sappho and Phillips."
Euphemia now blushed as deeply as the count, but from another motive.
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