Autobiographical fiction; British -- Belgium -- Fiction; Brussels (Belgium) -- Fiction; Love stories; Women teachers -- Fiction
Foreigners say that it is only English girls who can thus be trusted to
travel alone, and deep is their wonder at the daring confidence of
English parents and guardians. As for the “jeunes Meess,” by some their
intrepidity is pronounced masculine and “inconvenant,” others regard
them as the passive victims of an educational and theological system
which wantonly dispenses with proper “surveillance.” Whether this
particular young lady was of the sort that can the most safely be left
unwatched, I do not know: or, rather did not _then_ know; but it soon
appeared that the dignity of solitude was not to her taste. She paced
the deck once or twice backwards and forwards; she looked with a little
sour air of disdain at the flaunting silks and velvets, and the bears
which thereon danced attendance, and eventually she approached me and
spoke.
“Are you fond of a sea-voyage?” was her question.
I explained that my _fondness_ for a sea-voyage had yet to undergo the
test of experience; I had never made one.
“Oh, how charming!” cried she. “I quite envy you the novelty: first
impressions, you know, are so pleasant. Now I have made so many, I
quite forget the first: I am quite _blasée_ about the sea and all
that.”
I could not help smiling.
“Why do you laugh at me?” she inquired, with a frank testiness that
pleased me better than her other talk.
“Because you are so young to be _blasée_ about anything.”
“I am seventeen” (a little piqued).
“You hardly look sixteen. Do you like travelling alone?”
“Bah! I care nothing about it. I have crossed the Channel ten times,
alone; but then I take care never to be long alone: I always make
friends.”
“You will scarcely make many friends this voyage, I think” (glancing at
the Watson-group, who were now laughing and making a great deal of
noise on deck).
“Not of those odious men and women,” said she: “such people should be
steerage passengers. Are you going to school?”
“No.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have not the least idea—beyond, at least, the port of Boue-Marine.”
She stared, then carelessly ran on:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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