become a Girondin.
She found memoirs, histories, and tales of that delectable period, then
not so dim with time but that the figures of it were more than tragic
shadows; and for a week there was no meal in that house to which she sat
down earlier than half an hour Jate. She had a rightful property-interest
in the Revolution, her own great-uncle having been one of those who
"suffered;" not, however, under the guillotine; for to Georges Meilhac
appertained the rare distinction of death by accident on the day when the
business-like young Bonaparte played upon the mob with his cannon.

There were some yellow letters of this great uncle's in a box which had
belonged to her grandmother, a rich discovery for Miss Betty, who read and
re-read them with eager and excited eyes, living more in Paris with
Georges and his friends than in Rouen with her father. Indeed, she had
little else to do. Mr. Carewe was no comrade for her, by far the reverse.
She seldom saw him, except at the table, when he sat with averted eyes,
and talked to her very little; and, while making elaborate preparation for
her introduction to his friends (such was his phrase) he treated her with
a perfunctory civility which made her wonder if her advent was altogether
welcome to him; bat when she noticed that his hair looked darker than
usual about every fourth day, she began to understand Why he appeared
ungrateful to her for growing up. He went out a great deal, though no
visitors came to the house; for it was known that Mr. Carewe desired to
present his daughter to no one until he presented her to all. Fanchon
Bareaud, indeed, made one hurried and embarrassed call, evading Miss
Betty's reference to the chevalier of the kitten with a dexterity too
nimble to be thought unintentional. Miss Carewe was forbidden to return
her friend's visit until after her debut; and Mr. Carewe explained that
there was always some worthless Young men hanging about the Bareaud's,
where (he did not add) they interfered with a worthy oh one who desired to