"I don't want thanks. Give me deeds. You must write to me, Nancy. My bankers, Coutts, will always find me, and if I don't answer, never mind; I'm a shocking correspondent, my pen never saves my tongue. I'll come and see you when I pass through Town, and I hope I'll find you doing well. Be amenable to your father's sister: a rich, self-centred, elderly woman. Accept hard knocks—they will brace you—later on, you may find your life in pleasant places. I'd like to take you with me to Scotland, but I am under orders to visit old friends, who fix one's date of arrival, train, and room, with a firmness there is no withstanding, and I dare not be a deserter."
Nancy's were not the only thanks received by this social missionary. Pretty Mrs. Sandilands overwhelmed her with effusive gratitude, and flattering speeches.
"You took the girl off my hands, dear kindest lady, and have turned her into a new creature! I cannot imagine how you did it!"
"A little sympathy, and fellow-feeling, was all that was required."
Mrs. Sandilands coloured guiltily, and then replied:
"Nancy is like her father, you see—she takes everything so terribly, so foolishly, to heart."
"But what a good thing it is, that she happens to have a heart to take things to! Such folk are not common objects of the sea or shore in these days."
"Perhaps because people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves," retorted Mrs. Sandilands sharply. At this moment, her companion was summoned to receive a Marconigram, and she found herself unexpectedly abandoned with all the honours of the last word!
Later that same day, the Patna was berthed in the London Docks, and her horde of passengers scattered afar, every man and woman to their own; in most cases to forget within a few hours, those who had been their daily associates for the last four weeks.