“Yes, there are always kind people in the world.”
“Well, there mayn't be such an awful lot of 'em as you think, but I know one. There's Mr. Felix, for instance, who—”
She sprang to her feet, her hands held out as a barrier, and stood trembling, staring wildly at him, all the blood gone from her cheeks. “Stop, Stephen! Not another word. You must not mention that name to me. I cannot and will not permit it. I have listened too long already. I am very grateful for your kindness and for your offers to me, but you must not touch on my private affairs. I am earning my own living, and I shall continue to do so. And now I would like to be alone.”
“But, your ladyship, I've got something to tell you which—”
Martha stepped between them. “I think, Stephen, you'd better not talk to her ladyship any more. You might come some other night when she's more rested. You see she's had a very bad day and—”
Stephen's voice rang out clear. “Not say anything more, when—”
Martha dug her fingers into his arm. “Hush!” she whispered hoarsely, her lips close against his hairy cheek. “She'll be on the floor in a dead faint in a minute. Didn't I tell you not to mention his name?”
She stepped quickly to the side of her charge, who had walked falteringly toward the window and now stood peering into the darkness through the panes of the dormer.
“It's only Stephen's way, child, and you mustn't mind him. He doesn't mean anything. He hasn't seen much of women, living aboard ship half his life. It's only his way of trying to be kind. And you see he's known you from a baby, same as me—and that's why he lets out.”
She had folded the pitiful figure in her arms, her hand patting the bent shoulders. “But we'll get on together, my lamb—you and me. And we'll have supper right away—And I must ask you, Stephen, to go, now, because her ladyship is worn out and I'm going to put her to bed.”