“Rosebud, my gal.” The stentorian tones of the old sailor’s voice woke her suddenly from her day-dream. “There’s a party in the parlour waitin’ the pleasure of your company, a party mighty anxious for to converse with a clean white woman by way of a change.”
The girl quickly took up her flowers.
“Who can it possibly be, father?”
“Come and see, my gal; come and see.”
The old fellow went before, and his daughter followed him into the house. There, in the parlour, seated at the table, was Captain Sartoris.
Rose gave way to a little exclamation of surprise and pleasure; and was advancing to greet her visitor, when he arrested her with a gesture of his hand.
“Don’t come too nigh, Miss Summerhayes,” he said, with mock gravity. “I might ha’ got the plague or the yaller fever. A man out o’ currantine is to be approached with caution. Jest stand up agin’ the sideboard, my dear, and let me look at you.” The girl put down her roses, and posed as desired.
“Very pretty,” said Sartoris. “Pink-and-white, pure bred, English—which, after being boxed in with a menag’ry o’ Chinamen and Malays, is wholesome and reassuring.”
“Are you out for good, Captain?”
“They can put me aboard who can catch me, my dear. I’d run into the bush, and live like a savage. I’m not much of a mountaineer, but you would see how I could travel.”