I bowed affirmatively for all reply.  “And I,” he continued, “am Prosper La Vigne, of the ‘Less durneer’ settlement” (for thus he pronounced this anglicized French name) “Maurice County, Georgia,” with an air that seemed to say, “You have heard of me, of course!” and again I bowed, as my only alternative.

“Lay off your bonnet, if you please,” he said, coolly; “I would like to see the shape of your head before proceeding further.  Mine, you see, is an ill-balanced affair,” smiling quizzically in his effort to be condescending, perhaps.  “This is a mere business transaction, you know,” seeing that I hesitated to comply, “and your phrenological developments must atone for my deficiencies, or all will go wrong at once—­but do as you like.  Now that you have thrown back your veil, I can see that the brow is a good one.  That will suffice, I suppose.  I will take the moral qualities on trial for the nonce.  My wife is wholly occupied with her domestic and private affairs, you must understand, when we are at home, and much will devolve on you; that is, if we suit one another, which is dubious.  That reminds me!  I have not heard the sound of your voice yet; I am much governed by intonation in my estimates of people, and usually form a perfect opinion at first sight.  Be good enough to read this item,” and he handed me the morning paper, formally indicating it with his long, lithe forefinger.  It was from one of Mr. Clay’s speeches.  I did as he requested, without hesitation.

“People trot out horses and negroes when they wish to purchase; why not governesses?” I questioned, dumbly.  “He did well to ask no references; his examination is thorough, I perceive,” and I laid the paper down, half amused, half provoked, when I had finished.  He was gazing at me open-mouthed—­no unusual thing with him, I found later—­and was silent for a few moments.

“Splendid! admirable!” he exclaimed, suddenly; “both, voice and elocution perfect—­you possess the greatest of all accomplishments, madam, next to conversational excellence,” rising to his feet, and bowing low and seating himself again, in a formal way of his own.  “Music is a mockery compared to such reading! as well set a jew’s-harp against the winds of heaven!  You understand my meaning, of course; it is not precisely that, however.  Now let us converse a little.”

“The advertisement did not refer to that, I believe, as a condition,” I said, somewhat indignantly, and flushing hotly as I spoke.  “I really cannot converse to order.  I am a person of moods, and do not feel always like talking at all,” and I rose and prepared to draw down my veil, take up my parasol, and depart.