“Well, I am going to act upon her advice. I am going to be a pilot.”
“My dear Clara! A pilot! This is too much.”
“This is a beautiful book, papa. 'The Lights, Beacons, Buoys, Channels, and Landmarks of Great Britain.' Here is another, 'The Master Mariner's Handbook.' You can't imagine how interesting it is.”
“You are joking, Clara. You must be joking!”
“Not at all, pa. You can't think what a lot I have learned already. I'm to carry a green light to starboard and a red to port, with a white light at the mast-head, and a flare-up every fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, won't it look pretty at night!” cried her sister.
“And I know the fog-signals. One blast means that a ship steers to starboard, two to port, three astern, four that it is unmanageable. But this man asks such dreadful questions at the end of each chapter. Listen to this: 'You see a red light. The ship is on the port tack and the wind at north; what course is that ship steering to a point?'”
The Doctor rose with a gesture of despair. “I can't imagine what has come over you both,” said he.
“My dear papa, we are trying hard to live up to Mrs. Westmacott's standard.”
“Well, I must say that I do not admire the result. Your chemistry, Ida, may perhaps do no harm; but your scheme, Clara, is out of the question. How a girl of your sense could ever entertain such a notion is more than I can imagine. But I must absolutely forbid you to go further with it.”