“Surely they can’t be smugglers,” I said. “I thought all that was over and done with.”
In the course of another twenty minutes, during which we watched their progress, both boats had disappeared behind the headland to the northward. Then, thinking Connie had had nearly enough of the sea air for her first experience of its influences, I went and fetched Walter, and we carried her back as we had brought her. She had not been in the shadow of her own room for five minutes before she was fast asleep.
It was now nearly time for our early dinner. We always dined early when we could, that we might eat along with our children. We were both convinced that the only way to make them behave like ladies and gentlemen was to have them always with us at meals. We had seen very unpleasant results in the children of those who allowed them to dine with no other supervision than the nursery afforded: they were a constant anxiety and occasional horror to those whom they visited—snatching like monkeys, and devouring like jackals, as selfishly as if they were mere animals.
“O! we’ve seen such a nice gentleman!” said Dora, becoming lively under the influence of her soup.
“Have you, Dora? Where?”
“Sitting on the rocks, taking a portrait of the sea.”
“What makes you say he was a nice gentleman?”
“He had such beautiful boots!” answered Dora, at which there was a great laugh about the table.
“O! we must run and tell Connie that,” said Harry. “It will make her laugh.”
“What will you tell Connie, then, Harry?”