"If Ay am cooped up here in bed," he said, "Ay'm not going to be denied may smoke, nor yet may glass of toddy, though the doctor trayed hard to stop it. 'Shall Ay mix it a little weaker, sir?' sez Jim Harris. None of your tarnished nonsense, Ay sez, you mix it as usual. Ay've stuck to my toddy (just one glass or two at naight) for the last thirty years, and it's not going to turn round on me, and do me harm now. Eh, Mr. Gwyn?"
Cardo lighted his cigar with an apology to Valmai.
"Oh, she's used to it," said the captain, "and if she don't like it, she can go downstairs; you'll want to see about Mr. Gwyn's dinner, may dear."
"No, no, sir," said Cardo, "certainly not. I dine every day with all the other passengers on board the Burrawalla. I shall come back to my tea, and I hope your niece will always sit down to her tea and breakfast with me."
"Oh, well, if you laike. She's quaite fit to sit down with any nobleman in the land."
Later on in the day, Valmai, sitting on the window-seat reading out to her uncle from the daily paper, suddenly laid it aside.
"Rather a dull paper to-day, uncle!"
"Yes, rather, may dear; but you are not reading as well as usual;" and she wasn't, for in truth she was casting about in her mind for a good opening for her confession to her uncle. "Suppose you sing me a song, may dear!"
And she tried—
"By Berwen's banks my love hath strayed
For many a day in sun and shade,
And as she carolled loud and clear
The little birds flew down to hear."