I think she was of the opinion that Helene and I, with much study upon books, had suddenly gone mad.
"I do indeed love music," she said at last, uncertainly, "but, Master Hugo, not the kind of which my gossip, Helene, speaks.

I love best of all a ballad of love, sung sweetly and with a melting expression, as from a lover by the wall to his mistress aloft in the balcony, like that of him of Italy, who sings: "'O words that fall like summer dew on me.' "How goes it?
"'O breath more sweet than is the growing--the growing--'" She paused, and waved her hand as if to summon the words from the empty air.
"'_The growing garlic,'_ if it be a lover of Italy," cried Helene, still more spitefully.

"This is enough and to spare of chivalry, besides which Hugo hath his lessons to learn for Friar Laurence, or else he will repent it on the morrow.

Come, sweetheart, let us be going.

I will e'en convoy thee home." So she spoke, making great ostentation of her own superiority and emancipation from learning, treating me as a lad that must learn his horn-book at school.
But I was even with her for all that.
"And so farewell, then, dear Mistress Katrin," said I."The delicate pleasure of your presence shall be followed by the still more tender remembrance which, when you are gone, my heart shall continue to cherish of you." That was indeed well-minded.