“My aunt?” repeated Sybil. “Oh no, not at all–only a friend.”
“Oh, I thought all unattached young ladies lived with aunts here, like Miss Schenectady.” Ronald smiled grimly at the recollections of the previous day.
“Not quite that,” said Sybil, laughing. “Mrs. Wyndham is not the least like Miss Schenectady. She is less clever and more human.”
“Really, I am so glad,” said Ronald. “And she talks so oddly–Joe’s–Miss Thorn’s aunt. Could you tell me, if it is not a rude question, why so many people here are never certain of anything? It strikes me as so absurdly ridiculous, you know. She said yesterday that ’perhaps, if I rang the bell, she could send a message.’ And the man at the hotel this morning had no postage stamps, and said that perhaps if I went to the General Post Office I might be able to get some there.”
“Yes,” said Sybil, “it is absurd, and one catches it so easily.”
“But would it not be ridiculous if the guard called out at a station, ‘Perhaps this is Boston!’ or ‘Perhaps this is New York?’ It would be too utterly funny.”
“I am afraid that if you begin to make a list of our peculiarities yon will find funnier things than that,” said Sybil, laughing. “But then we always laugh at you in England, so that it is quite fair.”
“Oh, we are very absurd, I know,” said Ronald, “but I think we are much more comfortable. For instance, we do not have niggers about who call us ‘Mister.’”
“You must not use such words in Boston, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil. “Seriously, there are people who would be very much offended. You must speak of ‘waiters of color,’ or ‘the colored help;’ you must be very careful.”
“I will,” said Ronald. “Thanks. Is everything rechristened in that way? I am afraid I shall always be in hot water.”