‘Well,’ Marian answered in some surprise, ‘I see he is. Why not?’
‘Why not? My dear, how can you ask me such a question! Why, of course, because the man’s a regular mulatto—a coloured person.’
Marian laughed. ‘Really, dear,’ she answered, more amused than angry, ‘you mustn’t be so entirely filled up with your foolish little West Indian prejudices. The young man’s a doctor, and no doubt a gentleman in education and breeding, and, for my part, I can’t for the life of me see why one shouldn’t shake hands with him as well as with any other respectable person.’
‘Oh, but Marian, you know—a brown man!—his father and mother!—the associations—no, really!’
Marian smiled again. ‘They’re coming this way,’ she said; ‘we shall soon hear what they’re talking about. Perhaps he knows something about your people, or Edward’s.’
Nora looked up quite defiant. ‘About my people, Marian!’ she said almost angrily. ‘Why, what can you be thinking of! You don’t suppose, do you, that my people are in the habit of mixing casually with woolly-headed mulattoes?’
She had hardly uttered the harsh words, when the mulatto gentleman walked over towards them side by side with Edward Hawthorn, and lifted his hat courteously to Marian.
‘My wife,’ Edward said, as Marian bowed slightly in return: ‘Dr Whitaker.’
‘I saw your husband’s name upon his boxes, Mrs Hawthorn,’ the mulatto gentleman said with a pleasant smile, and in a soft, clear, cultivated voice; ‘and as my father has the privilege of knowing Mr Hawthorn of Agualta, over in Trinidad, I took the liberty of introducing myself at once to him. I’m glad to hear that we’re to be fellow-passengers together, and that your husband has really decided to return at last to his native island.’
‘Thank you,’ Marian answered simply. ‘We are all looking forward much to our life in Trinidad.’ Then, with a little mischievous twinkle in her eye, she turned to Nora. ‘This is another of our fellow-passengers, Dr Whitaker,’ she said demurely—‘my friend, Miss Dupuy, whom I’m taking out under my charge—another Trinidadian: you ought to know one another. Miss Dupuy’s father lives at an estate called Orange Grove—isn’t it, Nora?’