The lady leaned on my arm and jumped--no, gently put her foot on the ground.

My reward was a _thank you, sir_, uttered in a hard, dry, unmistakably British voice.
Thackeray has said somewhere that a well-brought-up Englishwoman is the completest of the works of God on this earth.

My only wish is to verify this gallant affirmation in the case of my companion.

She has put back her veil.

Is she a young woman or an old girl?
With these Englishwomen one never knows! Twenty-five years is apparently about her age, she has an Albionesque complexion, a jerky walk, a high dress like an equinoctial tide, no spectacles, although she has eyes of the intense blue which are generally short-sighted.