‘Well, you seem to know all about him, at any rate, Hilda,’ replied Charlie, when want of breath compelled me to stop my running commentary on the Baron’s pedigree. ‘I dare say it’s all true, but his title and estates don’t alter my opinion one bit. I should still think Miss Lovett a great deal too good for him.’ ‘But why? He is very handsome and accomplished, and you know nothing against his character?’ ‘He’s a Frenchman! that’s quite enough for me,’ said Charlie, with beautiful British depreciation of everybody who did not belong to the same nation as himself. ‘And an English girl must be too good for him, if he’s a lord or a costermonger.’ ‘What absurd prejudice!’ I replied, with a curling lip; ‘and I should have credited you with more good taste than to speak of a noble of France in that way.’ ‘Noble of fiddlesticks! Does he ever wash himself, that’s the question, Hilda? I don’t believe any of these foreigners do.’ ‘Why don’t you call him a “frog” at once, or a “Johnny Crapeau”?’ I returned witheringly. ‘It would be about as brilliant and as much in accordance with modern enlightenment as what you are saying now. I declare you put me out of all patience. And to think, too, that a man like Armand de Nesselrode should have been laid open, by his own folly, to the animadversions of a—a—Somerset House clerk!’ ‘Hullo, Hilda! are you really angry with me? Why, what is this fellow to you, even if he should be going to marry the pretty Miss Lovett?’ ‘Tessie is my friend, Charlie, and if she ever becomes the Baronne de Nesselrode, her husband will be my friend also. You can judge for yourself, then, if it is very pleasant for me to sit by and hear you talk in that way of him.’ ‘You must have enough to do if you take up the cudgels for all your friends’ friends after this fashion. However, I am very sorry if I have offended you, Hilda, and I will try and believe that your fine Baron _does_ wash himself, if it pleases you I should do so.’ ‘Please not to mention the subject again; it disgusts me,’ I said loftily, as I rose from my seat and commenced to descend the hill. Poor Charlie walked by my side in silence till we had got nearly half-way home, when he said: ‘You’re not cross with me still, are you, Hilda?’