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Warfield, Catherine A.

"Miriam Monfort A Novel"

"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.
"I like you none the worse for a proper exhibition of spirit," he said,
nodding kindly, and settling himself once more to his paper composedly.
"Sit still, miss, and compose yourself by the time Madame La Vigne comes
in, or she _may_ think you high-tempered, and I am sure you are nothing
of the kind--only very properly proud. There, now, that is right! You
seem to be a very sensible, well-conditioned young person indeed, and I
think you will suit. You are the tenth since yesterday morning," smiling
and bowing blandly, "and the only one that could read intelligibly.
Elocution, you see, is my hobby. I forgot to say," looking up from his
paper, after a pause, "the salary is six hundred dollars--not enough,
perhaps, for a lady of your merit--but quite as much as we can afford to
give. This I call a _modicum_."
"It is not very important," I remarked, "what I receive in the shape of
money, so that I am at no expense beyond my clothing, and other personal
matters, and that I find myself well situated. My engagement will, in
no case, extend beyond a year. You have your peculiarities, I see, and
I have mine. The question is, might they not jar occasionally?"
"Oh, never, never! '_noblesse oblige_,' you know," with a wave of the
hand, soft and urbane.


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