"What a fright!" said Margaret in my ear, as one of the actresses came
upon the stage with an affected gait, and a look of thinking herself
mighty fine and irresistible. "'Tis a slander, this."

"Of whom?" I asked.

"Of the fine ladies these poor things pretend to represent."

"How do you know?" I retorted, for I was somewhat taken with the
actresses, and thought to avenge them by bringing her down a peg or
two. "Have you seen so much of London fine ladies?"

"No, poor me!" she said sorrowfully, without a bit of anger, so that I
was softened in a trice. "But the ladies of New York, even, are no
such tawdry make-believes as this.--Heaven knows, I would give ten
years of life for a sight of the fine world of London!"

She was looking so divine at that moment, that I could not but
whisper:

"You would see nothing finer there than yourself."

"Do you think so?" she quickly asked, flashing her eyes upon me in a
strange way that called for a serious answer.

"'Tis the God's truth," I said, earnestly.

For a moment she was silent; then she whispered:

"What a silly whimsy of my father, his hatred of England! Does he