“She is a confounded little humbug,” said one of the subalterns to Oswin in confidence on the last day of the voyage. “Hang me if I would have had anything to say to this deuced mummery if I had known what sort of a girl she was. By George, you should hear the stories Kirkham has on his fingers' ends about her in India.”
Oswin laughed quietly. “It would be rash, if not cruel, to believe all the stories that are told about girls in India,” he said. “As for Miss Vincent, I believe her to be a charming girl—as an actress.”
“Yes,” said the lieutenant, who had not left his grinder on English literature long enough to forget all that he had learned of the literature of the past century—“yes; she is an actress among girls, and a girl among actresses.”
“Good,” said Oswin; “very good. What is it that somebody or other remarked about Lord Chesterfield as a wit?”
“Never mind,” said the other, ceasing the laugh he had commenced. “What I say about Lottie is true.”
CHAPTER XXX.
This world is not for aye, nor'tis not strange
That even our loves should with our fortunes change;