“Wait a bit!” begged Mr. Clark. “I been thinking—”
He clutched at his host’s arm in some trepidation as the door opened and an elderly female of unaffectionate aspect entered.
“This,” said Mr. Poskett, “is my wife,” and explained the reason of Mr. Clark’s presence to that lady, while the seaman himself, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, smiled unconvincingly, and vaguely remarked that girls would be girls, and that there was no need to be too worried about it.
Before Mrs. Poskett could reply to these remarks, the latch of the front door clicked.
“Ah, ’ere’s Nancy at last,” observed Mr. Poskett.
“And—and that reminds me, I—I forgot something!” stammered Mr. Clark. “Appointment I made a week ago! I must be going—now—at once!”
“You sit down!” firmly ordered Mr. Poskett. “You ’ave set your ’and to the plough, and you must not look back. Besides, ’ow could you have made an appointment a week ago? You were at sea then, weren’t you?”
“Why, I wrote a letter, and—and—”
“But you could not post it at sea.”
“I put it in a bottle and threw it overboard,” gulped Mr. Clark, edging nearer the door. “See you some other time. I—”