Captain Sartoris was a moderately good-looking man, if a trifle weather-beaten, but dressed in the Pilot’s clothes he was in danger of being lost and smothered; and Scarlett bore himself like one who laboured under a load of misery almost too great to be borne, but he had wisely rejected the voluminous coat proffered by his benefactor, and appeared in waistcoat and trousers which gave him the appearance of a growing boy dressed in his father’s cast-off apparel.
Such was the guise of the shipwrecked men as they sat hiding as much of themselves as possible under the Pilot’s table, whilst Rose Summerhayes bustled about the room. She took glasses from the sideboard and a decanter from a dumb-waiter which stood against the wall, and placed them on the table.
“And Rosebud, my gal,” said the Pilot, “as it’s quite two hours to dinner, we’ll have a morsel of bread and cheese.”
The French window stood open, and from the garden was blown the scent of flowers.
Rose brought the bread and cheese, and stood with her hands folded upon her snowy apron, alert to supply any further wants of the guests.
“And whose horse is that on the drive?” asked the Pilot.
“Amiria’s,” replied his daughter.
“Good: that’s a gal after my heart. I’m glad she’s come.”
“Take a chair, miss,” said Captain Sartoris from the depths of the vast garments that encumbered him.
“Thank you,” replied Rose, “but I’ve the dinner to cook.”