Rose, in quiet English attire, had escaped from her aunt to join him, singing in his ears, to spur his senses: 'Isn't it beautiful?
Isn't it beautiful?
Dear old England!' 'What do you find so beautiful ?' he asked.
'Oh, you dull fellow! Why the ships, and the houses, and the smoke, to be sure.' 'The ships?
Why, I thought you despised trade, mademoiselle ?' 'And so I do.

That is, not trade, but tradesmen.

Of course, I mean shopkeepers.' 'It's they who send the ships to and fro, and make the picture that pleases you, nevertheless.' 'Do they ?' said she, indifferently, and then with a sort of fervour, 'Why do you always grow so cold to me whenever we get on this subject ?' 'I cold ?' Evan responded.

The incessant fears of his diplomatic sister had succeeded in making him painfully jealous of this subject.

He turned it off.