To tell the truth I despise literary women, and
if I had my way I would consign them to some seventh-class place of
refuge, where they could howl and shout until they become what they
generally end in--nothing."
"I fear you would not make a bad attempt in that sort of business
yourself," said the young man much amused at the adroit manner which
Mrs. Verne sought to gain a compliment.
"Heaven forbid it my dear, Hubert. From a child I always had a holy
horror of blue stockings, and when I looked upon their coarse
masculine faces I always experienced a feeling of disgust that I
must confess increased with the years."
"And you have met many I presume."
"I merely refer to the works of the photographer or the artist,
such, as you see on the vignette of their works. I am sure that they
are ugly enough to frighten any sensitive child."
"But Marguerite is not one of that class," said the young man,
lazily readjusting a cushion that had slipped out beneath his head.
"She is an exception so far as appearance is concerned, but that
does not excuse her," said Mrs. Verne, with a haughty toss of the
head, then suddenly changing her voice to a very tender and
confidential tone, exclaimed, "My dear Hubert, I am going to give
you a little bit of advice, and I know you will receive it kindly,
as you value my child's happiness.
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