Good-night, my
sweet!” and the perambulator passed them and was gone. An awkward silence ensued between the three women after this little
incident. Elinor Leyton walked somewhat apart from her companions, as
if she wished to avoid all further controversy, whilst Margaret Pullen
sought some way by which to atone for her friend’s rudeness to the
young stranger. Presently they came across one of the _cafés chantants_
which are attached to the seaside hotels, and which was brilliantly
lighted up. A large awning was spread outside, to shelter some dozens
of chairs and tables, most of which were already occupied. The windows
of the hotel salon had been thrown wide open, to accommodate some
singers and musicians, who advanced in turn and stood on the threshold
to amuse the audience. As they approached the scene, a tenor in evening
dress was singing a love song, whilst the musicians accompanied his
voice from the salon, and the occupants of the chairs were listening
with rapt attention. “How charming! how delightful!” cried Harriet Brandt, as they reached
the spot, “I never saw anything like this in the Island!”

“You appear never to have seen anything!” remarked Miss Leyton, with a
sneer. Miss Brandt glanced apologetically at Mrs. Pullen. “How could I see anything, when I was in the Convent?” she said,
“I know there are places of entertainment in the Island, but I was
never allowed to go to any. And in London, there was no one for me
to go with! I should so much like to go in there,” indicating the
_café_. “Will you come with me, both of you I mean, and I will pay for
everything! I have plenty of money, you know!”

“There is nothing to pay, my dear, unless you call for refreshment,”
was Margaret’s reply. “Yes, I will go with you certainly, if you so
much wish it! Elinor, you won’t mind, will you?”

But Miss Leyton was engaged talking to a Monsieur and Mademoiselle
Vieuxtemps--an old brother and sister, resident in the Lion d’Or--who
had stopped to wish her Good-evening! They were dear, good old people,
but rather monotonous and dull, and Elinor had more than once
ridiculed their manner of talking and voted them the most terrible
bores. Mrs. Pullen concluded therefore, that she would get rid of
them as soon as courtesy permitted her to do so, and follow her. With
a smile and a bow therefore, to the Vieuxtemps, she pushed her way
through the crowd with Harriet Brandt, to where she perceived that
three seats were vacant, and took possession of them. They were not
good seats for hearing or seeing, being to one side of the salon, and
quite in the shadow, but the place was so full that she saw no chance
of getting any others. As soon as they were seated, the waiter came
round for orders, and it was with difficulty that Mrs. Pullen prevented
her companion purchasing sufficient liqueurs and cakes to serve double
the number of their company. “You must allow me to pay for myself, Miss Brandt,” she said gravely,
“or I will never accompany you anywhere again!”

“But I have lots of money,” pleaded the girl, “much more than I know
what to do with--it would be a pleasure to me, it would indeed!”

But Mrs. Pullen was resolute, and three _limonades_ only were placed
upon their table. Elinor Leyton had not yet made her appearance, and
Mrs. Pullen kept craning her neck over the other seats to see where she
might be, without success. “She cannot have missed us!” she observed, “I wonder if she can have
continued her walk with the Vieuxtemps!”

“O! what does it signify?” said Harriet, drawing her chair closer to
that of Mrs. Pullen, “we can do very well without her. I don’t think
she’s very nice, do you?”

“You must not speak of Miss Leyton like that to me, Miss Brandt,”
remonstrated Margaret, gently, “because--she is a great friend of our
family.”

She had been going to say, “Because she will be my sister-in-law before
long,” but remembered Elinor’s request in time, and substituted the
other sentence. “I don’t think she’s very kind, though,” persisted the other. “It is only her manner, Miss Brandt! She does not mean anything by it!”

“But you are so different,” said the girl as she crept still closer,
“I could see it when you smiled at me at dinner. I knew I should like
you at once. And I want you to like me too--so much! It has been the
dream of my life to have some friends. That is why I would not stay in
Jamaica. I don’t like the people there! I want friends--real friends!”

“But you must have had plenty of friends of your own age in the
Convent.”

“That shows you don’t know anything about a convent! It’s the very last
place where they will let you make a friend--they’re afraid lest you
should tell each other too much! The convent I was in was an Ursuline
order, and even the nuns were obliged to walk three and three, never
two, together, lest they should have secrets between them. As for us
girls, we were never left alone for a single minute! There was always
a sister with us, even at night, walking up and down between the rows
of beds, pretending to read her prayers, but with her eyes on us the
whole time and her ears open to catch what we said. I suppose they were
afraid we should talk about lovers. I think girls do talk about them
when they can, more in convents than in other places, though they have
never had any. It would be so dreadful to be like the poor nuns, and
never have a lover to the end of one’s days, wouldn’t it?”

“You would not fancy being a nun then, Miss Brandt!”

“_I_--Oh! dear no! I would rather be dead, twenty times over! But they
didn’t like my coming out at all. They did try so hard to persuade
me to remain with them for ever! One of them, Sister Féodore, told
me I must never talk even with gentlemen, if I could avoid it--that
they were all wicked and nothing they said was true, and if I trusted
them, they would only laugh at me afterwards for my pains. But I don’t
believe that, do you?”

“Certainly not!” replied Margaret warmly. “The sister who told you so
knew nothing about men. My dear husband is more like an angel than a
man, and there are many like him. You mustn’t believe such nonsense,
Miss Brandt! I am sure you never heard your parents say such a silly
thing!”

“O! my father and mother! I never remember hearing them say anything!”
replied Miss Brandt. She had crept closer and closer to Mrs. Pullen as
she spoke, and now encircled her waist with her arm, and leaned her
head upon her shoulder. It was not a position that Margaret liked, nor
one she would have expected from a woman on so short an acquaintance,
but she did not wish to appear unkind by telling Miss Brandt to move
further away. The poor girl was evidently quite unused to the ways
and customs of Society, she seemed moreover very friendless and
dependent--so Margaret laid her solecism down to ignorance and let her
head rest where she had placed it, resolving inwardly meanwhile that
she would not subject herself to be treated in so familiar a manner
again.