"Ain't it, Nigel?"
He turned his head slowly towards her, as if she had taken a new liberty
in disturbing his meditations.
"Wha--at?" he drawled.
It was almost too much for her to sustain herself under. Her courage
collapsed.
"I was only saying how pretty the cottages were," she faltered. "And
that there's nothing like this in America."
"You ended your remark by adding, 'ain't it,'" her husband
condescended. "There is nothing like that in England. I shall ask you to
do me the favour of leaving Americanisms out of your conversation when
you are in the society of English ladies and gentlemen. It won't do."
"I didn't know I said it," Rosy answered feebly.
"That is the difficulty," was his response. "You never know, but
educated people do."
There was nothing more to be said, at least for a girl who had never
known what it was to be bullied. This one felt like a beggar or a
scullery maid, who, being rated by her master, had not the refuge of
being able to "give warning." She could never give warning. The Atlantic
Ocean was between her and those who had loved and protected her all
her short life, and the carriage was bearing her onwards to the home in
which she was to live alone as this man's companion to the end of her
existence.
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