people—and above all other forward people, I detest strangers, who address me on immaterial topics in public conveyances.
I had occasion, a few weeks after my retirement from official life, to travel to Liverpool by the limited mail on my way to Jamaica. A railway journey to Liverpool is detestable, but posting is worse, and walking out of the question.
It was a cold night in April. There were very few passengers by the limited mail. There were only four first-class carriages to Liverpool: of these, three were occupied by ladies—one in each carriage; the fourth was a smoking carriage and empty. I don't smoke, but the train was on the point of starting, and the guard assured me that it was unlikely that we should take up any first-class passengers on our way. It was a new carriage, and had never been used. At all events I should be safe from female intrusion; so I jumped in. The train started, and I had my carriage all to myself. The train did not stop till we reached Eugby. At Eugby a lady opened the carriage door. She was a stout plain middle-aged woman—five-and-forty, I should say. She was extravagantly dressed in showy colours. Her complexion was very dark—she was, in fact, a Mulatto—and she wore a respectable moustache.
This wouldn't do; I could settle her at all events.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but this is a smoking carriage."
"Exactly," replied the lady, with a strong foreign accent, "but I smokes."
