Standing at his side, she put her hand on his shoulder.

As he looked down at her, his lips curled.

“Nevertheless, Estelle, I find a pale ghost of pity for you wandering up and down what was once my heart.  After the glorious intoxication of Parisian life, how can you endure the tedium of this dullest of humdrum—­this most moral and stupid of all country towns?  Little gossip, few flirtations, neither beaux esprits nor bons vivants—­what will become of you?  Now, whatever amusement, edification, or warning you may be able to extract from my society, I here beg permission to express the hope that you will appropriate unsparingly.  I shall, with exemplary hospitality, dedicate myself to your service—­shall try to make amends for votre cher Victor’s absence, and solemnly promise to do everything in my power to assist you in strangling time, except parting my hair in the middle of my head, and making love to you.  With these stipulated reservations, command me ad libitum.”

Her face flushed slightly, she withdrew her hand and sat down.

Taking his favorite position on the rug, with one hand thrust into his pocket and the other dallying with his watch-chain, Mr. Murray continued: 

“Entire honesty on my part, and a pardonable and amiable weakness for descanting on the charms of my native village, compel me to assure you, that, notwithstanding the deprivation of opera and theatre, bal masque and the Bois de Bologne, I believe you will be surprised to find that the tone of society here is quite up to the lofty standard of the ‘Society of Areueil,’ or even the requirements of the Academy of Sciences.  Our pastors are erudite as Abelard, and rigid as Trappists; our young ladies are learned as that ancient blue-stocking daughter of Pythagoras, and as pious as St. Salvia, who never washed her face.  For instance, girls yet in their teens are much better acquainted with Hebrew than Miriam was, when she sung it on the shore of the Red Sea (where, by the by, Talmudic tradition says Pharaoh was not drowned), and they will vehemently contend for the superiority of the Targum of Onkelos over that on the Hagiographa, ascribed to one-eyed Joseph of Sora!  You look incredulous, my fair cousin.  Nay, permit me to complete the inventory of the acquirements of your future companions.  They quote fluently from the Megilloth, and will entertain you by fighting over again the battle of the school of Hillel versus the school of Shammai!  Their attainments in philology reflect discredit on the superficiality of Max Muller; and if an incidental allusion is made to archaeology, lo! they bombard you with a broadside of authorities, and recondite terminology that would absolutely make the hair of Lepsius and Champollion stand on end.  I assure you the savants of the Old World would catch their breath with envious amazement, if they could only enjoy the advantage of the conversation of these orthodox and erudite refugees from the nursery!