Mr. Taylor once showed him a handsome silver-hilted sword. He admired it, till he saw on the scabbard the damning inscription, "Royal Exchange." "Take your sword," said he; "it's surprising a man of your sense should commit an error; for fifty guineas I would not have a city name on any article of my dress." She comments: "Now would anyone suppose this fine gentleman's father was in trade and he himself brought up in that very city he affects to despise? Very true, nevertheless."
How, by the way, did she know that? Who told her? And, by the way, how did she know about Mrs. Tulloch? But one must not ask such dreadful questions. They shatter the foundations of faith.
And so his studied attention to me in the minutest article effectually shielded him from suspicion till his end was answered, of raising up a party against us, by the means of that vile woman, who was anxious to triumph over me, especially as I have been repeatedly compelled (for the honour of the sex) to censure her swearing and indecent behaviour. I have, therefore, little comfort to look forward to for the remainder of the voyage.
Then she reckons up her allies, or rather the neutrals. They are a feeble set.
It is only justice to name Mr. Taylor as an amiable though melancholy companion, and Mr. Manesty, an agreeable young man under twenty. Mr. Fuller is a middle-aged man. He has, it seems, fallen into the hands of sharpers and been completely pillaged. He has the finest dark eyes I ever met with. Mr. Moreau, a musician, is very civil and attentive.
Small fry like these could be no help. They can scarcely have got enough to eat at dinner. Her truer supports lay within.
Having early discovered the confederacy, prudence determined us to go mildly on, seemingly blind to what it was beyond our
