“Your officer has been carried up there,” she said, “and my brother, too, for the better air. At present, our few residents are dispersed over both spots: deducting, that is to say, such of our number as are always going to, or coming from, or staying at, the Mine.”
(“He is among one of those parties,” I thought, “and I wish somebody would knock his head off.”)
“Some of our married ladies live here,” she said, “during at least half the year, as lonely as widows, with their children.”
“Many children here, ma’am?”
“Seventeen. There are thirteen married ladies, and there are eight like me.”
There were not eight like her—there was not one like her—in the world. She meant single.
“Which, with about thirty Englishmen of various degrees,” said the young lady, “form the little colony now on the Island. I don’t count the sailors, for they don’t belong to us. Nor the soldiers,” she gave us a gracious smile when she spoke of the soldiers, “for the same reason.”
“Nor the Sambos, ma’am,” said I.
“No.”
“Under your favour, and with your leave, ma’am,” said I, “are they trustworthy?”