Rose, enchanted with her new life, had found aboard ship to afford the most delightful opportunities for flirtation, and several young men, Jim Aviolet amongst them, had been ready to flirt.
The emotional climaxes had then come thick and fast, one upon another. There had been Mrs. Jones-Pryce’s rather tardy awakening to her duties of chaperonage, and her crudely worded rebuke to Rose, the ready tears and loud protests of Rose in return, and Jim Aviolet’s eager and indiscreet consolations.
“Give the old hag notice. You’ll easily find another job of the same kind at Colombo, to get you home again.”
“But I don’t want to go home! Uncle Alfred doesn’t want me—and besides, he’d be so angry.”
“You poor little girl! I say, don’t cry, Rose. I may call you Rose, mayn’t I?”
Oh, yes, he might do anything he liked.
She had not been exactly in love with Jim, but pleased and flattered because he was a “real” gentleman (not like Mr. Jones-Pryce) and full of romantic compassion when he had confided to her that he was the “bad hat” of his family.
“It’s drink, mostly. I suppose you think that awful?”
Rose had not thought it nearly so “awful” as a girl of Jim Aviolet’s own class would have thought it. Drink was a not uncommon misfortune amongst her mother’s friends, and amongst Uncle Alfred’s clientèle. She had been fired with enthusiasm at the idea of reforming him, taking care of him.
“I know I could keep straight with a girl like you, Rose,” had been Jim Aviolet’s declaration.