Miss Mcmillan Page #2

"Miss McMillan" by Robert Barr is a humorous and engaging novella that follows the charming and adventurous life of its titular character, Miss McMillan. Set against a backdrop of Victorian society, the story explores themes of romance, social expectations, and individuality. Miss McMillan, an unconventional heroine, navigates the challenges of love and societal norms with wit and determination, making her way through a series of comedic situations and misunderstandings. Barr's witty writing and lively characters bring to life the struggles and triumphs of a woman seeking to define her own path in a restrictive world.

• Travel

								

the apparent neglect, and then, in her pride, resents it. She does not
write, and he knows not why. The mistake may be discovered too late,
and all because a basket of flowers has been missent.”

“Now, Blair,” said Waters, “if anything can make you do the square
thing surely that appeal will.”

“I shall not so far forget what is due to myself and to the dignity of
this table as to reply to our erratic friend. Here is what I propose to
do—first catch our hare. Steward, can you find out for me at what table
and at what seat Miss McMillan is?”

While the steward was gone on his errand Mr. Blair proceeded.

“I will become acquainted with her. McMillan is a good Scotch name and
Blair is another. On that as a basis I think we can speedily form an
acquaintance. I shall then in a casual manner ask her if she knows a
young man by the name of Edwin J., and I shall tell you what effect the
mention of the name has on her.”

“Now, as part owner in the flowers up to date, I protest against that.
I insist that Miss McMillan be brought to this table, and that we all
hear exactly what is said to her,” put in Mr. Waters.

Nevertheless we agreed that Mr. Blair’s proposal was a good one and the
majority sanctioned it.

Meanwhile our sentimental lady had been looking among the crowd for the
unconscious Miss McMillan.

“I think I have found her,” she whispered to me. “Do you see that
handsome girl at the captain’s table. Really the handsomest girl on
board.”

“I thought that distinction rested with our own table.”

“Now, please pay attention. Do you see how pensive she is, with her
cheek resting on her hand? I am sure she is thinking of Edwin.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” I replied. “There is considerable motion just
now, and indications of a storm. The pensiveness may have other
causes.”

Here the steward returned and reported that Miss McMillan had not yet
appeared at table, but had her meals taken to her room by the
stewardess.

Blair called to the good-natured, portly stewardess of the Climatus,
who at that moment was passing through the saloon.

“Is Miss McMillan ill?” he asked.

“No, not ill,” replied Mrs. Kay; “but she seems very much depressed at
leaving home, and she has not left her room since we started.”

“There!” said our sentimental lady, triumphantly.

“I would like very much to see her,” said Mr. Blair; “I have some good
news for her.”

“I will ask her to come out. It will do her good,” said the stewardess,
as she went away.

In a few moments she appeared, and, following her, came an old woman,
with white hair, and her eyes concealed by a pair of spectacles.

“Miss McMillan,” said the stewardess, “this is Mr. Blair, who wanted to
speak to you.”

Although Mr. Blair was, as we all were, astonished to see our mythical
young lady changed into a real old woman, he did not lose his
equanimity, nor did his kindly face show any surprise, but he evidently
forgot the part he had intended to play.

“You will pardon me for troubling you, Miss McMillan,” he said, “but
this basket of flowers was evidently intended for you, and was sent to
my room by mistake.”

Miss McMillan did not look at the flowers, but gazed long at the card
with the writing on it, and as she did so one tear and then another
stole down the wrinkled face from behind the glasses.

“There is no mistake, is there?” asked Mr. Blair. “You know the
writer.”

“There is no mistake—no mistake,” replied Miss McMillan in a low voice,
“he is a very dear and kind friend.” Then, as if unable to trust
herself further, she took the flowers and hurriedly said, “Thank you,”
and left us.

“There,” I said to the lady on my left, “your romance turns out to be
nothing after all.”

“No, sir,” she cried with emphasis; “the romance is there, and very
much more of a romance than if Miss McMillan was a young and silly girl
of twenty.”

Perhaps she was right.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes