"
It was a relief that Armine here came in, attracted by a report of
his friend's arrival, and Mrs. Brownlow went in search of her
daughter, to whom she was guided by a sonata played with very
unnecessary violence.
"You need not murder Haydn any more, you little barbarian," she said,
with a hand on the child's shoulder, and looking anxiously into the
gloomy face. "I have settled him."
Babie drew a long breath, and said—-
"I'm glad! It was so horrid! You'll not let him do it any more?"
"Then you decidedly would not like it?" returned her mother.
"Like it? Poor Duke! Mother! As if I could ever! A man that can't
sit in a draught, or get wet in his feet!" cried Babie, with the
utmost scorn; and reading reproof as well as amused pity in her
mother's eyes, she added, "Of course, I am very sorry for him; but
fancy being very _sorry_ for one's love!"
"I thought you liked wounded knights?"
"Wounded! Yes, but they've done something, and had glorious wounds.
Now Duke-—he is very good, and it is not his fault but his
misfortune; but he is such a-—such a muff!"
"That's enough, my dear; I am quite content that my Infanta should
wait for her hero. Though," she added, almost to herself, "she is
too childish to know the true worth of what she condemns.
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