That seems to be the style here, you know--a chaperon, they call it.

Now, Milly Woods, you see, is about the same age, and the Dona Anna, of course, is older, but--blank it!--she's as big a flirt as the rest--I mean," he added, correcting himself sharply, "she lacks balance, sir, and--what shall I call it ?--self-abnegation." "Then Dona Anna is still of your party ?" asked Paul.
"She is, sir, and her brother, Don Caesar.

I have thought it advisable, on Yerba's account, to keep up as much as possible the suggestion of her Spanish relationship--although by reason of their absurd ignorance of geography and political divisions out here, there is a prevailing impression that she is a South American.

A fact, sir.
I have myself been mistaken for the Dictator of one of these infernal Republics, and I have been pointed out as ruling over a million or two of niggers like George!" There was no trace of any conception of humor in the colonel's face, although he uttered a short laugh, as if in polite acceptance of the possibility that Paul might have one.

Far from that, his companion, looking at the striking profile and erect figure at his side--at the long white moustache which drooped from his dark cheeks, and remembering his own sensations at first seeing George--thought the popular belief not so wonderful.