“Oh, vastly! but I did not know that was your style before.  Don’t cultivate it, dear, if you hope to win manly hearts.  Men like to do all the lecturing themselves, and I find it diplomatic to feign profound ignorance on all subjects outside of a bandbox; it delights them so to enlighten us.  No wonder they fancy us fools when we feign foolishness so admirably—­lapwings that we are!”

“But I never do, in such society.  My experience is different from yours.  I always pretend to know twice as much as I do, when they are about; it bluffs them off, and they are credulous sometimes as well as ignorant, notwithstanding their boasted acumen.”

“Your lamp of experience needs trimming, my pretty Miriam,” she said, shaking her head, “if you really believe this.  They never forgive superiority, assumed or real; none but the noble ones, I mean; who, of course, are in the minority.  Give a pair of tongs pantaloons, and it asserts itself.  Trousers, my dear, are at the root of manly presumption.  I discovered that long ago.  A man in petticoats would be as humble as a woman.  This is my theory, at least; take it for what it is worth.  And now to sleep, with what heart we may, an iceberg being in our vicinity;” and, taking my face in her hand, she kissed me cordially.  “It is very early in our acquaintance for such manifestations to be allowable,” she said, kindly, “but I am a sort of spoiled child of society, and dare to be natural.  I consider that the best privilege that attaches to my condition, that of the ‘bell-wether’ of Savannah ton—­the universally-accepted bore!  You know—­Favraud has told you, of course; he always characterizes as he goes.”

“He has called you the most agreeable woman in Savannah, I remember, young or old, and was truly glad, on my account, to know that you were on board.  Of your brother he spoke very kindly also, even admiringly.”

“Oh, yea, I know; but of Raguet there is little question now.  His wife’s death has crushed him.  I never saw so changed a man; he is half idiotic, I believe; and I am with him now just to keep those children from completing the work of destruction.  Six little motherless ones—­only think—­and as bad as they can possibly be; for poor Lucilla was no manager.  Isn’t it strange, the influence those little cottony women get over their husbands?  You and I might try forever to establish such absolute despotism, all in vain.  It is your whimpering sort that rule with the waving of a pocket-handkerchief; but poor, dear little woman, she is powerless now; and I suppose the next will be like unto her.  Raguet would never look at any thing feminine that hadn’t white eyes and pink hair (yellow, I mean, of course)—­his style, you know, being dark and stern, he likes the downy, waxy kind.  All this is shockingly egotistical; but the question is, who that has a spark of individuality is otherwise?  Good-night, again, and may all sweet dreams attend you; for my part, I never dream, being past the dreaming age, and realities fortunately disappear with daylight; even cross children are wheedled into quietness, and servants forget to fidget and giggle; and, for mosquitoes, there are bars.  Adieu.”