“We were talking about the Cape, Major Trafford, I think,” said Lucy, determined to bring him back to the dreaded theme.
“Were we? I think not; I think we were remembering all the pleasant days beside the Shannon.”
“If you please, more sugar and no brandy; and now for the Cape.”
“I 'll just hand them the coffee,” said he, rising and crossing over to the others.
“Won't she let you smoke, Trafford?” said Tom, seeing the unlighted cigar in the other's fingers; “come over here, then, and escape the tyranny.”
“I was just saying,” cried Cave, “I wish our Government would establish a protectorate, as they call it, over these islands, and send us out here to garrison them; I call this downright paradise.”
“You may smoke, Major Trafford,” said Lucy, as he returned; “I am very tolerant about tobacco.”
“I don't care for it—at least not now.”
“You'd rather tell me about the Cape,” said she, with a sly laugh. “Well, I 'm all attention.”
“There's really nothing to tell,” said he, in confusion. “Your father will have told you already what a routine sort of thing life is,—always meeting the same people,—made ever more uniform by their official stations. It's always the Governor, and the Chief-Justice, and the Bishop, and the Attorney-General.”