On the next day I myself was seized with the first severe cold I had had that winter; it was very bad and kept me in bed. I had been in bed all day, not feeling exactly ill, but glad of the warmth and comfort of my snug little room. Towards evening Augusta came in and asked me if I would like any friends to visit me. "Oh, I don't know," I answered. "Of course, Hermione or you; but the others--I think not." "There's that stupid girl, that pale-faced Comtesse--Riki, I think you call her--she is very anxious to come and have a chat with you." Now, to tell the truth, I had been feeling uncomfortable enough ever since Rosalind had spoken to me about the rule with regard to the foreign girls' letters. The Baroness von Gablestein had every right to make what rules she liked in her own school, but I could not help thinking that it was hardly wise that such a marked distinction should be made between girls of one nationality and another. I now understood that all foreign girls' letters were pot into the post-box in the hall, and the Baroness looked them over before they were posted. But the affair was not mine, and I should have forgotten all about it but for the very uncomfortable feeling that I myself, unwittingly, had twice broken this most solemn rule of the house, and had twice posted a letter for Riki von Kronenfel. Now, it seemed to me that this might be a good opportunity for me to expostulate with her on the whole position, and to tell her that she had done very wrong to allow me innocently to break the rule of the house, and to assure her that under no circumstances should I be guilty of such an indiscretion again. Augusta meanwhile seated herself comfortably by my bedside. "Horrible," she said--"horrible! but for the prospect of pleasing him--" I did not pretend to misunderstand her. "But you are really getting on splendidly, Augusta," I said. "Ah, yes! I should be a brute indeed did I do otherwise. And perhaps when I am sufficiently acquainted with the German tongue I may find out some of its beauties--or, rather, the beauties of its literature, for the language itself is all guttural and horrible--worse than French." "But surely French is very dainty?" I said. "Dainty!" said Augusta, with scorn. "What one wants is a language of thought--a language that will show sentiment, that will reveal the depth of nature; and how, I ask you, can you find it in that frippery the French tongue?" "I do not know," I answered somewhat wearily. "I like Moliere and the writings of some of the other great French poets very much indeed." "Well," said Augusta, "I have got to study a great quantity of German for to-morrow morning. I must go into my room and tackle it. The Professor said I was not to write to him, but I keep his treasured letter near my heart; but if you are writing home you might say that Augusta is not ungrateful. Do you ever have the great privilege of writing direct to your father?"