“Be what, my dear?” asked Mr. Grewgious, as she hesitated. “Not frightened?”
“No, not that,” said Rosa, shyly; “in Mr. Tartar’s way. We seem to be appropriating Mr. Tartar’s residence so very coolly.”
“I protest to you,” returned that gentleman, “that I shall think the better of it for evermore, if your voice sounds in it only once.”
Rosa, not quite knowing what to say about that, cast down her eyes, and turning to Mr. Grewgious, dutifully asked if she should put her hat on? Mr. Grewgious being of opinion that she could not do better, she withdrew for the purpose. Mr. Crisparkle took the opportunity of giving Mr. Tartar a summary of the distresses of Neville and his sister; the opportunity was quite long enough, as the hat happened to require a little extra fitting on.
Mr. Tartar gave his arm to Rosa, and Mr. Crisparkle walked, detached, in front.
“Poor, poor Eddy!” thought Rosa, as they went along.
Mr. Tartar waved his right hand as he bent his head down over Rosa, talking in an animated way.
“It was not so powerful or so sun-browned when it saved Mr. Crisparkle,” thought Rosa, glancing at it; “but it must have been very steady and determined even then.”
Mr. Tartar told her he had been a sailor, roving everywhere for years and years.
“When are you going to sea again?” asked Rosa.