way to
the inn. He was still annoyed at losing himself. As I had anticipated,
he bluntly answered: "Yes."

"When you were a boy, and you wanted something," I said, "did your
mother teach you to say 'Please'?"

He positively blushed. "She did," he admitted; "and she taught me to say
'Beg your pardon' when I was rude. I'll say it now: 'Beg your pardon.'"

This curious apology increased my belief in his redeeming qualities. I
led the way to the inn. He followed me in silence. No woman who respects
herself can endure silence when she is in the company of a man. I made
him talk.

"Do you come to us from Ramsgate?" I began. He only nodded his head.
"We don't think much of Ramsgate here," I went on. "There is not an old
building in the place. And their first Mayor was only elected the other
day!"

This point of view seemed to be new to him. He made no attempt to
dispute it; he only looked around him, and said: "Sandwich is a
melancholy place, miss." He was so rapidly improving in politeness, that
I encouraged him by a smile. As a citizen of Sandwich, I may say that we
take it as a compliment when we are told that our town is a melancholy
place. And why not? Melancholy is connected with dignity. And dignity
is associated with age. And _we_ are old. I teach my pupils logic, among
other things--there is a specimen. Whatever may be said to the contrary,
women can reason. They can also wander; and I must admit that _I_ am
wandering. Did I mention, at starting, that I was a governess? If not,
that allusion to "pupils" must have come in rather abruptly. Let me make
my excuses, and return to my lost stranger.

"Is there any such thing as a straight street in all Sandwich?" he
asked.

"Not one straight street in the whole town."

"Any trade, miss?"

"As little as possible--and _that_ is expiring."

"A decayed place, in short?"

"Thoroughly decayed."

My tone seemed to astonish him. "You speak as if you were proud of its
being a decayed place," he said.

I quite respected him; this was such an intelligent remark to make. We
do enjoy our decay: it is our chief distinction. Progress and prosperity
everywhere else; decay and dissolution here. As a necessary consequence,
we produce our own impression, and we like to be original. The sea
deserted us long ago: it once washed our walls, it is now two miles away
from us--we don't regret the sea. We had sometimes ninety-five ships in
our harbor, Heaven only knows how many cent