And yet, though some of my own sex may have turned up their noses at my plain, bold questioning of Captain Butler, there is no man, I vow, who would have disliked my manner in me. Captain Butler warmed up, a fresh life came into his face with his frequent laugh, and he could not take his eyes off me. My uncle nursed his knee and watched us with a composed countenance. My aunt, who was a simple soul, followed the conversation as one who hears and sees nothing beyond what is said.
‘Captain Butler,’ said my uncle, presently, ‘ask Miss Marian why it is that she goes on living in the East when she has fortune enough to set up as a fine lady in the West?’
‘I was born in Stepney,’ said I. ‘My house is there. My father and mother lie buried there. I’ll not leave it.’
‘Who’s the wit,’ exclaimed Captain Butler, ‘who says that the further he goes West, the more convinced he is that the wise men came from the East?’
‘Pray, what is a fine lady?’ asked my aunt.
‘Ask the dressmakers,’ said Mr. Johnstone.
‘I hope my dear Marian will never change,’ said my aunt, looking fondly at me. ‘She is fine enough, I am sure. If she goes West she’ll be falling into company who’ll make her ashamed of her poor East-end relatives.’
We rattled on in some such a fashion as this. It was because I was not blind, and not because I was vain, that I speedily saw that Captain Butler admired me greatly. If I stepped across the room, his eyes followed the motions of my figure. If I spoke, his gaze dwelt upon my lips. Even my poor, dear, slow-eyed aunt noticed the impression I had made, as I gathered from her occasional looks at her husband. My uncle asked me to sing, and I went to the piano and sang them a simple, melodious sea-song which I used to hear my father sing without an accompaniment. My knowledge of music was slight, but I had a correct ear and a strong voice, and felt whatever I sang, because I chose to sing only what I could feel, and my poor attempts always pleased. Captain Butler stood beside me at the piano while I sang; he could not have praised me more warmly had I been a leading lady at the Italian Opera. I got up, laughing, and told him that the little music I had was by ear.
‘I think I was never properly educated,’ said I. ‘My father hated schools and believed that young girls thrown together made one another wicked. I was educated by governesses, and, really, to be able to read and write and to know the multiplication-table is a great deal to be thankful for.’
‘My brother was right,’ said my uncle. ‘I hate girls’ schools myself. Your finished school-miss knows all about Shakespeare and the musical classes, but she can’t tell how many ounces go to a pound of beef.’