"I don＇t know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett."I believe the novels have a great deal but I don＇t suppose they＇re very accurate. We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend of Ralph＇s and he asked her down. She was very positive,quite up to everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on for evidence. Too free a fancy—I suppose that was it. She afterwards published a work of 昀ction in which she was understood to have given a representation—something in the nature of a caricature, as you might say—of my unworthy self.I didn＇t read it, but Ralph just handed me the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldn＇t have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn＇t like the idea that she hadn＇t taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk like an American—I can＇t talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I＇ve made them understand me pretty well over here. But I don＇t talk like the old gentleman in that lady＇s novel. He wasn＇t an American; we wouldn＇t have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you that they＇re not always accurate. Of course, as I＇ve no daughters,and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven＇t had much chance to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle."