“Why, Medea, what nonsense you are talking,” replied Mr Culpepper.
“Medea’s right,” croaked Mrs Culpepper; “all moonshine.”
“So you need not be so very particular, papa, I can tell you,” rejoined Miss Medea, who then whispered in her father’s ear, loud enough for me to hear, “No such thing, nothing but a regular marine.”
“Pooh, nonsense,” replied the purser, in a low voice; “the boy has been taught to say it—he’s too clever for you, Medea.”
At this very true remark of her father’s, Miss Medea swelled into a towering passion, her whole face, neck, and shoulders—for she wore a low gown in the morning—turning to a fiery scarlet. I never saw such a fury as she appeared to be. She rushed by me so roughly, that I was thrown back a couple of paces, and then she bounced out of the room.
“Medea knows how to put that and that together, Mr Culpepper,” croaked out Mrs Culpepper.
“Medea’s wise in her own conceit, and you’re a regular old fool,” rejoined Mr Culpepper, with asperity; “one too knowing and the other not half knowing enough. Master Keene, I hope you are hungry, for we have a very nice dinner. Do you like ducks and green peas?”
“Yes, sir, very much,” replied I.
“Were you born at Chatham, Master Keene?”
“No, sir, I was born at the Hall, near Southampton. My mother was brought up by old Mrs Delmar, the captain’s aunt.”