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 getting tired even of looking at the beautiful waters of the bay and seeing that Major Street did not intend to speak, 'you can tell the Boy that I very much regret that I cannot attend his wedding. And now,' I added, turning back towards the carriage, 'if you are really quite ready, we will drive home.' Of course, I knew all the time that it was quite unreasonable to be angry with Major Street. He, poor man, couldn't help the innocence of the Boy or the craft and subtlety of the woman. But there was nobody else, and, you see, I'm one of those people who must vent their wrath on somebody, and it naturally falls on the unfortunate person nearest—who, by the way, is often one's dearest too. I like to explode my wrath straight away and get it over. Of course, it's hard luck on the people who happen to get in the way at the time, but still it's so much better than being sulky. I know I was quite unreasonable just then, but no gentle reader with any experience whatever ever does expect the heroine to be reasonable. Just think what would happen to all the plots that hang on some little misunderstanding that never would have happened if the heroine had only been even just the least little bit reasonable. It was rather a silent drive home. I had quite made up my mind that I didn't like Bombay at all. My views of a place, and of people too, always depend upon my frame of mind at the moment that I see them. What my frame of mind depends on is, of course, an unknown quantity. Lady Manifold's