“Had you not told me that you had passed the greater part of your life, Mrs. Dalton, in a British Colony, I could have sworn to the fact, from your last speech,” said her companion: “you all think so much of dress, that with you it is really the coat which makes the man, and, I suppose, the gown which makes the lady. However, you shall have it your own way. You know how easy it is for you to bring me over to your opinion.”
“Do you think that a pretty woman?” she said, directing her husband’s eyes towards the lady in question.
“Rather,” he replied coldly, “but very worldly and sophisticated.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Flora, like a true woman; “that is precisely the opinion I have formed of her. Is that officer her husband?”
“I should rather think not. Husbands and wives seldom try to attract public attention to themselves, as that man and woman are doing. I have no doubt they are strangers who never met before.”
“Impossible!”
“Nothing more probable; people who meet on short journeys and voyages like this, often throw aside the restraints imposed by society, and act and talk in a manner which would be severely censured in circles where they are known. Were you never favoured by the autobiography of a fellow-traveller in a stage-coach?”
“Yes often, and thought it very odd that any one should reveal so much of their private history to a stranger.”
“It is a common occurrence, originating in the vanity of persons who love to make themselves and their affairs the subject of conversation; and if they can but obtain listeners, never stop to question who or what they are.”
“Ah, I remember getting into a sad scrape,” said Flora, “while travelling from S—— to London in a stage-coach. It was one of these uncomfortable things which one hates to think of for the rest of a life, and yet so ridiculous that one feels more inclined to laugh over it than to cry, though I believe (for I was but a girl at the time), I did both.