"A novel!" said Isabella, contemptuously: "no, I dare say Mad. de Rosier is not a novel-reader." "Zeluco, sir, if you please," said Mad. de Rosier. "You see, Isabella, notwithstanding the danger of forfeiting your good opinion, I have dared to ask for a novel." "Well, I always understood, I am sure," replied Isabella, disdainfully, "that none but trifling, silly people were novel-readers." "Were readers of trifling, silly novels, perhaps you mean," answered Mad. de Rosier, with temper; "but I flatter myself you will not find Zeluco either trifling or silly." "No, not Zeluco, to be sure," said Isabella, recollecting herself; "for now I remember Mr. Gibbon, the great historian, mentions Zeluco in one of his letters; he says it is the best philosophical romance of the age. I particularly remember _that_, because somebody had been talking of Zeluco the very day I was reading that letter; and I asked my governess to get it for me, but she said it was a novel--however, Mr. Gibbon calls it a philosophical romance." "The name," said Mad. de Rosier, "will not make such difference to _us_; but I agree with you in thinking, that as people who cannot judge for themselves are apt to be misled by names, it would be advantageous to invent some new name for philosophical novels, that they may no longer be contraband goods--that they may not be confounded with the trifling, silly productions, for which you have so just a disdain." "Now, ma'am, will you ask," cried Herbert, as the carriage stopped at his mother's door--"will you ask whether the man has brought home my spade and the watering-pot? I know you don't like that I should go to the servants for what I want; but I'm in a great hurry for the spade, because I want to dig the bed for my radishes before night: I've got my seeds safe in my hand."