"You're not, typist," says Flannagan. "'Tis curdled like he is,ma'am, wid inveterate scorn, the poor man!"

"The human bein' is vicious from original sin," says the tin-typeman. "It comes out in the camery," he says. "You can't fool thecamery. It tells ye the Bible truth," he says. "Nor I ain't expectin'anything from a broiled and frizzled country like this, where thecontinent's shaved down so narrow you could take a photograph of twooceans. And yet it's as good as anywhere else. I takes tin-types andsays nothing."

"Santa Maria!" says Madame Bill.

And Flannagan says proudly: "'Tis as I told ye, ma'am. There's notsuch an other to be seen for extinsive scornful-fulness."

"Speaking of the ship, ma'am," I says, "I guess it's all right.Ain't you afraid your husband will get internationally complicated?"