“I think so.”

“And have you felt anything in Coriolanus like you?”

“Perhaps I have.”

“Was he not faulty as well as great?”

Moore nodded.

“And what was his fault? What made him hated by the citizens? What caused him to be banished by his countrymen?”

“What do you think it was?”

“I ask again

“Well, answer yourself, Sphinx.”

“It was a spice of all; and you must not be proud to your workpeople; you must not neglect chances of soothing them; and you must not be of an inflexible nature, uttering a request as austerely as if it were a command.”

“That is the moral you tack to the play. What puts such notions into your head?”

“A wish for your good, a care for your safety, dear Robert, and a fear, caused by many things which I have heard lately, that you will come to harm.”

“Who tells you these things?”

“I hear my uncle talk about you. He praises your hard spirit, your determined cast of mind, your scorn of low enemies, your resolution not ‘to truckle to the mob,’ as he says.”

“And would you have me truckle to them?”

“No, not for the world. I never wish you to lower yourself; but somehow I cannot help thinking it unjust to include all poor working people under the general and insulting name of ‘the mob,’ and continually to think of them and treat them haughtily.”

“You are a little democrat, Caroline. If your uncle knew, what would he say?”

“I rarely talk to my uncle, as you know, and never about such things. He thinks everything but sewing and cooking above women’s comprehension, and out of their line.”

“And do you fancy you comprehend the subjects on which you advise me?”

“As far as they concern you, I comprehend them. I know it would be better for you to be loved by your workpeople than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more likely to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Hortense, should we love you? When you are cold to me, as you are sometimes, can I venture to be affectionate in return?”

“Now, Lina, I’ve had my lesson both in languages and ethics, with a touch on politics; it is your turn. Hortense tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other day, a piece by poor André Chénier—‘La Jeune Captive.’ Do you remember it still?”

“I think so.”

“Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent; especially let us have no English u’s.”

Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous voice, but gaining courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet verses of Chénier. The last three stanzas she rehearsed well.

Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon he furtively raised them. Leaning back in his chair he could watch Caroline without her perceiving where his gaze was fixed. Her cheek had a colour, her eyes a light, her countenance an expression this evening which would have made even plain features striking; but there was not the grievous defect of plainness to pardon in her case. The sunshine was not shed on rough barrenness; it fell on soft bloom. Each lineament was turned with grace; the whole aspect was pleasing. At the present moment – animated, interested, touched – she might be called beautiful. Such a face was calculated to awaken not only the calm sentiment of esteem, the distant one of admiration, but some feeling more tender, genial, intimate – friendship, perhaps, affection, interest. When she had finished, she turned to Moore, and met his eye.