“In no manner,” answered Mary, once more smiling; this time, however, because she understood how modestly and readily her companion was opening a door by which she might let a secret she had declined to reveal to his uncle, escape. “I am not what you call a Manhattanese, in either descent, birth, or residence; in no sense, whatever.”
“But, surely, you have never been educated in the country?—You must belong to some large town—your manners show that—I mean that you——”
“Do not belong to Biberry. In that you are quite right, sir.[sir.] I had never seen Biberry three months since; but, as for New York, I have not passed a month there, in my whole life. The longest visit I ever paid you, was one of ten days, when I landed, coming from Havre, about eighteen months since.”
“From Havre! Surely, you are an American, Miss Monson—our own countrywoman?”
“Your own countrywoman, Mr. Wilmeter, by birth, descent, and feelings. But an American female may visit Europe.”
“Certainly; and be educated there, as I had already suspected was your case.”
“In part it was, and in part if was not.” Here Mary paused, looked a little arch, seemed to hesitate, and to have some doubts whether she ought to proceed, or not; but finally added—“You have been abroad, yourself?”
“I have. I was nearly three years in Europe; and have not been home yet, quite a twelvemonth.”
“You went into the east, I believe, after passing a few months in the Pyrenees?” continued the prisoner, carelessly.
“You are quite right; we travelled as far as Jerusalem. The journey has got to be so common, that it is no longer dangerous. Even ladies make it, now, without any apprehension.”