“As Portia, the wife of Brutus,” I blundered on, at the same time receiving her permission, by a nod, to light my cigar.
“The pious, love-sick wife of Brutus!” This in a disdainful tone, and the white teeth clicked softly together.
“Yes, a good disguise,” I said banteringly, though I fancy somewhat tentatively also, and certainly with a touch of rudeness. I was thinking at that moment of the Intermediate Passenger, and I was curious.
“And you think of going in the disguise of a gentleman? Caius Cassius was that, wasn’t he?” she retorted in an ironical tone.
“I suppose he was, though he was punished once for rudeness,” I replied apologetically.
“Quite so,” was the decisive reply.
I felt that she was perfectly cool, while I was a little confused, and ashamed too, that I had attempted to be playfully satirical. And so, wondering what I should say next, I remarked in desperation: “Do you like the sea?”
“I am never ill at sea,” was her reply. “But I do not really like it; it is treacherous. The land would satisfy me if—” She paused.
“Yes, Mrs. Falchion—‘if’?”
“If I did not wish to travel,” she vaguely added, looking blandly at me.