He was, like many people whose attachments are warm when made, rather averse to making new acquaintances, from the fact that the ones already possessed kept his faculty of affection sufficiently employed. So, when he glanced over the passenger-list, it was rather satisfactory than otherwise to see there was no name he knew. He had plenty of books with him, and expected to find his time sufficiently occupied in reading, and in escaping from the bores by whom men crossing the ocean are apt to be beset. It was early in December, and the weather was raw and cold. Hertford was well protected against it, however, and spent much of his time on deck. On the afternoon of the second day out, he had been comfortably settled for some time, absorbed in his book, when, amid the confused sounds of water and machinery and human speech, he heard some words spoken so near him that they compelled the recognition of his consciousness. “It seems that’s her aunt, and not her mother,” the voice said: and glancing up, Hertford saw two women, who had placed themselves very near him and were evidently discussing some third party of travellers. “I heard the beautiful girl call her ‘Auntie,’ as I passed. I call the old one the ‘Rich Lady,’ until I can find out her name, because she’s so high and mighty and magnificent. They’ve got a foreign maid and man-servant with them, and more furs and rugs and foot-warmers and luxuries than any one on the ship. I want you to watch the Rich Lady when she speaks to those servants. I’ve heard her call them both by name, and they had foreign names unfamiliar to me; but I told someone yesterday evening that, as well as I could make out, she called the maid ‘Minion,’ and the man ‘Varlet’--perhaps her manner helped me a little to this understanding of her words.”