“Oh, yes; I suppose he can read and write; but, of course, he can never be admitted into society, don’t you know?”
“No, I don’t, Mr. Clinton. He may be a captain some day.”
“But he isn’t now. I give you my word, I noticed this morning, when you were speaking with him, that his fingers were all soiled with tar. That’s horrid, don’t you know.”
“Don’t you think he’s a good-looking boy, Mr. Clinton?”
“Well, yes; I suppose, for one of the lower order, Mr. Vane.”
“You forget we don’t have any distinction of classes in America.”
“Don’t we though? By Jove! Mr. Vane, you don’t put yourself on a level with those creatures that dig ditches and climb masts, and such things?”
“Your sentiments are very undemocratic, Mr. Clinton. You ought to have been born in England.”
“I wish I had been. I like their institutions a good deal better than ours, don’t you know?”
“When I first spoke with you, Mr. Clinton, I thought you might be an Englishman.”