She did not, however, stand in need of attention. The well-known captain
of an East Indian vessel lately arrived from Britain was sedulously
polite to her; and two or three gentlemen, whom Hartley knew to be
engaged in trade, tended upon her as they would have done upon the
safety of a rich argosy.
"For Heaven's sake, what is that for a Zenobia?" said Hartley, to the
gentleman whose whisper had first attracted his attention to this lofty
dame.
"Is it possible you do not know the Queen of Sheba?" said the person of
whom he enquired, no way both to communicate the information demanded.
"You must know, then, that she is the daughter of a Scotch emigrant, who
lived and died at Pondicherry, a sergeant in Lally's regiment. She
managed to marry a partisan officer named Montreville, a Swiss or
Frenchman, I cannot tell which. After the surrender of Pondicherry, this
hero and heroine--But hey--what the devil are you thinking of?--If you
stare at her that way, you will make a scene; for she will think nothing
of scolding you across the table."
But without attending to his friend's remonstrances, Hartley bolted from
the table at which he sat, and made his way, with something less than
the decorum which the rules of society enjoin, towards the place where
the lady in question was seated.
"The Doctor is surely mad this morning"--said his friend Major Mercer to
old Quartermaster Calder.
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