I did not deem it necessary to correct her astronomy by a hint at the nebulosity of comets, or at the absurdity of the idea that a tail, ten millions of miles long and half as many broad, could be squeezed into the channel of the Hudson. I could only admit to myself that if the tail of a comet was red hot, and small enough to fit the river, her picture of the effect of its fall was graphic.
She thanked me with many blushes, and as I paused in my comments she folded up her poetry reluctantly, and returned it to her reticule. As the bag opened I saw a book in it, and my respect for her erudition, before which I positively trembled as she ran through the names I have mentioned, was considerably lessened as I recognized Spalding’s English Literature, and felt that her learning was “crammed.”
As I felt as confident in my smattering as hers; I talked more boldly, and we spent the morning in a conversation on literature that would have made Porson envious at our attainments.
When dinner was announced our party had a private table in the saloon, and I was embarrassed to find that Mr. Finnock and Miss Stelway were regarding my table deportment as if that was the Shibboleth on which they would cut or notice me. Miss Finnock, however, kept me more employed in attentions to the outer woman than to the inner man, so that I got on very well, except pouring her glass too full of wine and making too loud a sip when I tasted mine.
Mr. Marshman had invited an elderly gentleman to dine with him, and was so absorbed in a political discussion that he completely ignored my presence; indeed, he seemed to forget that there was any one present except himself and his patient listener.
Mrs. M. was much annoyed by his neglect of his guests, and wasted many nods and frowns on him. As he paid no attention to them she spoke to him:
“Mr. Marshman, pass the claret to Mr. Smith.”
But she might as well have addressed the post of the saloon, for Marshman was at that moment closing his most forcible argument in favor of his assumption.
“Mr. Marshman!” exclaimed Lillian, a flush on her cheek and a flash in her eye, “do you know where you are? Mr. Smith’s glass is empty.”
“Oh!—yes—pardon me, my dear,” turning with a confused smile to her, and anything but a smile to me as he ran my glass over with the crimson fluid.