"Rachel! How can I tell? She is only as yet entering upon life, and her health seems to be quite confirmed."
"The best confirmed I ever knew in my life. She never has a day's illness. Taking all the chances one way and another, shall we say sixty?"
"More than that, I should think," said Mr. Jones.
"Say sixty. She may fall down a trap in the theatre, or be drowned in one of your Cunarders."
"The Cunard steamers never drown anybody," said Mr. Jones.
"Well, then, a White Star—or any cockle-shell you may please to name. We'll put her down for sixty as an average."
"I don't know what you are driving at," said Mr. Jones.
"She has lived a third of her life already, and you expect her to know nothing, so that the aroma may still cling to her. Aroma does very well for earls' daughters and young marchionesses, though as far as I can learn, it's going out of fashion with them. What has an American girl to do with aroma, who's got her bread to earn? She's got to look to her conduct, and to be sharp at the same time. Mr. Mahomet M. Moss will rob her of seventy-five cents out of every dollar for the next twelve months. In three years' time he'll rob her of nothing. Only that she knows what conduct means, he'd have to look very sharp to keep his own."
"It is not natural," said Mr. Jones.
"But it's American. Marvels are not natural, and we are marvellous people. I don't know much about aroma, but I think you'll find Rachel will come out of the washing without losing much colour in the process."