“Beastly weather, isn’t it?” he remarked, to fill a long, long pause.
“Personally,” said Miss Torrance, “I don’t believe in thinking about the weather. I agree with Dr. Johnson that it is contemptible for a being endowed with reason to live in dependence upon the weather and the wind.”
“Well—” said the young man, who knew not Dr. Johnson, but was respectful toward Miss Torrance. “You can’t help it very well at sea, you know.”
“Have you been at sea?” came Olive’s clear little voice.
“Ever since I was seventeen. I’m chief officer now,” he answered, with modest pride. “Passenger ship.”
It seemed to Miss Torrance that even as he spoke she could smell a salty vigor in the air. He came from the sea, did he—the sea of which she and Olive talked so often? He was a sailor, was he? Miss Torrance’s heart sank, remembering all that she and Olive had said about sailors. The romance of the sea—what nonsense!
They had reached the house. The young man sprang out and held open the door of the cab; but he stood in the doorway, so that no one could get out.
“I wish I could see you again!” he said earnestly. “We’re not sailing until Monday—engine trouble. The cargo’s all in, and I know I could get another afternoon or evening on shore.”
He waited.
“My name’s Martin—Sam Martin,” he went on anxiously. “I—I know a fellow who lives in your house—Robertson. He could tell you—”