Her criticisms were not confined to passengers of other nationalities. Some of our own came in for comment quite as severe. “Look at those girls at that table over there,” she whispered. “The two in red, I mean. One of 'em has got a little flag pinned on her dress. What do you suppose that is for?” I looked at the young ladies in red. They were vivacious damsels and their conversation and laughter were by no means subdued. A middle-aged man and woman and two young fellows were their table-mates and the group attracted a great deal of attention. “What has she got that flag pinned on her for?” repeated Hephzy. “She wishes everyone to know she's an American exportation, I suppose,” I answered. “She is evidently proud of her country.” “Humph! Her country wouldn't be proud of her, if it had to listen to her the way we do. There's some exports it doesn't pay to advertise, I guess, and she and her sister are that kind. Every time they laugh I can see that Lady Erkskine shrivel up like a sensitive plant. I hope she don't think all American girls are like those two.” “She probably does.” “Well, IF she does she's makin' a big mistake. I might as well believe all Englishmen were like this specimen comin' now, and I don't believe that, even if I do hail from Bayport.” The specimen was the “Duke of Labrador,” who sauntered by, monocle in eye, hands in pockets and an elaborate affection of the “Oxford stoop” which he must have spent time and effort in acquiring. Hephzibah shook her head. “I wish Toronto was further from home than it is,” she declared. “But there! I shan't worry about him. I'll leave him for Lord Erkskine and his wife to be ashamed of. He's their countryman, or he hopes he is. I've got enough to do bein' ashamed of those two American girls.” It may be gathered from these conversations that Hephzy and I had been so fortunate as to obtain a table by ourselves. This was not the case. There were four seats at our table and, according to the chart of the dining-saloon, one of them should be occupied by a “Miss Rutledge of New York” and the other by “A. Carleton Heathcroft of London.” Miss Rutledge we had not seen at all. Our table steward informed us that the lady was “hindisposed” and confined to her room. She was an actress, he added. Hephzy, whose New England training had imbued her with the conviction that all people connected with the stage must be highly undesirable as acquaintances, was quite satisfied. “Of course I'm sorry she isn't well,” she confided to me “but I'm awfully glad she won't be at our table. I shouldn't want to hurt her feelin's, but I couldn't talk to her as I would to an ordinary person. I COULDN'T! All I should be able to think of was what she wore, or didn't wear, when she was actin' her parts. I expect I'm old-fashioned, but when I think of those girls in the pictures outside that theater--the one we didn't go to--I--well--mercy!”