“In the north of England,” he said, “parliamentary candidates have to display this red badge at mayoral receptions and such functions, whatever their political colour may be. I have never heard of anyone wearing a blue one.”
Bates’s instinct had not been at fault, and it was clear that Captain Welfare was gratified by the bishop’s apparel. He seemed at first a little oppressed by the ritual of dinner. Not that there was anything unbecoming to a country vicar about my table.
But when I reflected how much the element of squalor must have entered into his life, how little he must have seen of the routine of a comfortable English home, I understood that my inherited plate and glass, the damask which was Mrs. Rattray’s tender care, the arrangement of flowers in which my gardener gratified his pride, the shaded candles, and the quiet, sympathetic ministrations of Bates and a parlour-maid, must all seem unfamiliar, even grandiose, to Captain Welfare. He seemed subdued and impressed, watchful but happy.
Edmund had been telling us of the beauties and the discomforts of the Eastern Mediterranean.
“I suppose,” said the bishop, “you will eventually be running quite a fleet of boats as your business extends?”
Edmund looked across to Welfare as though doubtful how to reply.
“No, my Lord,” said Welfare. “It wouldn’t pay to extend. It’s too personal a business. We’ve only had the Astarte a little more than a year, but she’s paid for herself, for a new suit of sails, and a new copper bottom. Now it’s all profit and I don’t mind saying she’s making us a big percentage. But another boat without us aboard wouldn’t do it. It’s knowing the trade and knowing the natives and working your boat yourself. And of course there’s side issues to the trade. This Brighton business we’re starting is one. I guess we’ll make enough to retire on out of the Astarte.”
“Do you think you’ll want to retire?” asked the bishop.
Captain Welfare looked at him with a puzzled expression in his wistful eyes.
“Well,” he said, “what’s one in business for?”