"That Mr. Fowler's a rare hand to talk," he remarked presently, when his little daughter joined him. "That comes of being educated, I s'pose. He can argue a bit, he can."
"Can he?" Salome looked surprised. "How do you know, father?" she inquired.
"'Cause I was foolish enough to try to argue with him, my maid!"
"Oh! When was that?"
"This morning, on the beach."
"Oh!" she cried again, more and more astonished. "What did you argue about, father?" She ventured to ask.
"Drink!" was the brief reply. And there was that in Josiah's manner which forbade further questioning.
Salome nestled silently close to her father's side, her head resting against his arm, as she thought how nice it was to have him there with her, quite himself, and how dearly she loved him. She listened to the murmur of the sea, and tried to count the stars appearing in the sky, whilst Josiah recalled the argument he had had with Mr. Fowler, in which, he was obliged to admit, he had come off worst. At last, a deep sigh from Salome drew his attention to her, and he asked what was amiss.
"Amiss?" she echoed in astonishment. "Nothing."
"But you sighed, my dear."