“I have told you, Sir William, how inexorable he is about Clara; and although at first I stoutly opposed his reasonings, I am free to own that he has convinced me his plan is the true one; and as he has made all the necessary arrangements,--have you not, Mr. Stocmar?--and they are charming people she will be with,--he raves about them,” said she, in a sort of whisper, while she added, still lower, “and I partly explained to him my own projected change,--and, in fact, it is better as it is,--don't you think so?” and thus hurrying Sir William along,--a process not unlike that by which an energetic rider hustles a lazy horse through heavy ground,--she at least made him feel grateful that he was not called upon for any increased exercise of his judgment. And then Stocmar followed, like another counsel in the same brief,--half jocularly, to be sure, and like one not required to supply more than some illustrative arguments. He remarked that young ladies nowadays were expected to be models of erudition,--downright professors; no smatterings of French and Italian, no water-color sketches touched up by the master,--“they must be regular linguists, able to write like De Sévigné, and interpret Dante.” In a word, so much did he improve the theme, that he made Sir William shudder at the bare thought of being domesticated with so much loose learning, and thank his stars that he had been born in a generation before it. Not but the worthy Baronet had his own secret suspicions that Clara wanted little aid from all their teachings; his firm belief being that she was the most quick-witted, gifted creature ever existed, and it was in a sort of triumphant voice he asked Mrs. Morris, “Has Mr. Stocmar seen her?” “Not yet,” said she, dryly. “Clara is in my room. Mr. Stocmar shall see her presently; for, as he insists on leaving this to-morrow--” “To-morrow---to-morrow!” cried Sir William, in amazement.