“How is he?” asked Ethel anxiously.
“Pretty fair. He has blue saucers round his eyes, as he had before he went up for his little go.”
“Oh, I know them,” said Ethel.
“Very odd,” continued her cousin; “when the end always is, that he says he has the luck of being set on in the very place he knows best. But I think it has expended itself in a sleepless night, and I have no fears, when he comes to the point.”
“What is he doing?”
“Writing to his brother Harry. He said it was the day for the Pacific mail, and that Harry’s pleasure would be the best of it.”
“Ah!” said Ethel, glancing towards the paper, “is there any naval intelligence?”
He looked; and while she was thinking whether she ought not to depart, he exclaimed, in a tone that startled her, “Ha! No. Is your brother’s ship the Alcestis?”
“Yes! Oh, what?”
“Nothing then, I assure you. See, it is merely this—she has not come into Sydney so soon as expected, which you knew before. That is all.”