trailed from her arm; but it was characteristic of Mrs. Macdougal to
profess the sweetest solicitude for other people, whilst appropriating
for her own use and pleasure all the comfortable, pleasant, and pretty
things. She was not more than thirty-three, and looked like a gipsy
spoiled by refinements. Her social schooling had been confined to a long
course of that delectable literature devoted to the amours of a strictly
honourable aristocracy with superior milkmaids, nursery governesses, and
other respectable young persons in lowly walks. Indeed, Mrs. Macdougal,
having had no early training worth speaking of, had successfully modelled
her manners upon those of a few favourite heroines. She fancied the
expression, 'It is, is it not?' lent an air of exquisite refinement to
ordinary conversation. She was naturally artificial. Artifice would have
been her certain resort in whatever path it had pleased Fate to plant her
small feet. Her temper was excellent so far as it went, and her manner
tender and clinging. She would have preferred to have been tragic with
such eyes and such hair, but with her plump figure it was not possible.
She loved attention, particularly the attentions of men, and employed
many artifices to secure them, usually with success. She had engaged
Captain Evan on the deck during every afternoon for a whole week, fanning
away a purely hypothetical headache. Altogether Mrs. Macdougal was a
delightful fool; almost everybody liked her.

'Really, for your own sake, my dear! It will not do for two of us to be
invalids.' Mrs. Macdougal pressed a firm white hand upon her ample bosom,
and coughed a melancholy little cough, hinting at a deep-seated
complaint, the seriousness of which she could not long hope to disguise
from her friends.

Lucy retired dutifully, and her mistress composed herself in an effective
attitude for a long chat with the young man.