“Then, my dear child, will you remember another time that I object to your talking to strangers. It is not”—she hesitated, casting about for a word that would indicate impropriety without too plainly expressing it—“it is not good manners. He”—glancing again at the distant serge-clad figure by the railing—“ought to have known better than to speak to you, if he is what a gentleman should be.”
“I am quite sure he is a gentleman,” I said emphatically.
Mother made no reply. She reserved her opinion.
CHAPTER VIII.
SOME ENGLISH RELATIONS.
I did not see much more of my unknown friend after this little check upon our intercourse. He neither sought nor avoided me, and I did a little avoid him—the result of which was an occasional “Good morning” only. I think he must have left us at Suez, for I missed him in the train afterwards, and he was not of our party when we set sail again. To tell the truth, by the time our voyage was over I had almost forgotten his existence.
We called our voyage over at Brindisi; it was over so far that we were given up to our own devices, and no longer bound to consult those times and tides that wait for no man. There was no occasion for us, as daddy said, to get to London in a couple of days; and we certainly did not hurry ourselves. We went to Venice, and Florence, and Naples, and Milan, and Rome, and all the famous continental show-places that tourists always go to—Australian tourists, at any rate. I was in such a hurry to see them (for Tom had described them all to me) that I was allowed to overrule mother’s sensible suggestion that we should get home first, and come back as sightseers afterwards.
I was as fresh and vigorous as possible, and so was daddy; and, if mother felt fagged with her travels, and needed a resting-place for the sole of her tired foot, she was the last one to own to it. And she got some pleasure from the knowledge that it was not the season for tourists proper, and that we could not therefore identify ourselves with those objectionable persons—as we all certainly gained a great advantage in having quiet ways to travel in, and the skies of spring above us. We “planted” the bulk of our luggage in various railway centres, and we went a round of sight-seeing that occupied us for several weeks, taking in (besides the places I have named) the highways of Alpine Switzerland, and old-world Norman cities that struck me dumb with their beauty. I appeared in the traditional colonial character—not surprised at anything; for I was simply so overpowered by the wonder of all these astounding novelties that I could not express myself. I gazed, and listened, and sighed, and sometimes rubbed furtive tears out of the corners of my eyes; but such a spell of silence fell upon my nimble tongue as it had never known, perhaps, since it learned the English language. Mother, I need scarcely add, was highly gratified by this unaccustomed well-bred reticence on my part, which she had hardly expected. I am quite sure she accounted for it to herself on her favourite theory of the instinct of gentle blood.
At Paris we took up our abode for a week, not so much to see the lions of the city, though we made a point of missing none of the bigger sort, as to indulge in an extensive course of shopping for pretty clothes for me. It had been arranged that, on our arrival in London, we were to make our head-quarters for a while at aunt Alice’s house in South Kensington, and, from the time that that was settled, mother had shown herself extremely anxious that I should be provided with what she called a suitable outfit. Father also spoke about it, and bade her not consider expense in making her purchases, for that he “should like the child to be as well dressed as other people.” I taxed them with thinking that I was a beauty, and wanting to show me off to my English relations; and when they declared that I was a conceited monkey, and that they never thought anything of the kind, it was transparently evident to me that they did not adhere to the truth quite so strictly as usual.
Mother, who was a born economist, and never, I am sure, wasted a shilling in her life, set to work in those Paris shops as if she were a Baroness Rothschild at least. She began, in the most systematic manner, with lovely underclothing, and handkerchiefs, and collars, and cuffs, and worked up, through shoes and boots, dressing-gowns and stockings, gloves, and ties, and sash ribbons, and laces—all those manifold little costly things that I had hitherto been but sparingly supplied with—to the more important features of a bran-new wardrobe; and, then, what she laid out upon dresses, bonnets, jackets, and things of that sort, I should be afraid to say. She had been born with that rare attribute, taste, and no number of years in the bush had had any power to impair it; and though the clothes she bought me had not a costly appearance, and were all more or less simple in style, they were so fine and delicate and distinguished-looking, that they were fit for a princess. Poor dear Bronzewing must have sold well, I told father, when all our purchases were made, including, of course, some war paint for mother, which was of no account to her compared with my equipment; but he only smiled, and patted my head, and showed himself well pleased with our extravagance.