“And is she going to marry you, then, when we get to port?”
“No: Sir Gordon; it’s all over. She ain’t the marrying sort.”
“Humph! Marry a black woman, then, to spite her, and then ask her to come and see your wife.”
“No, Sir Gordon, beggin’ your pardon, sir; I’ve been in the wrong, when I ought to have took you for an example. It’s all over, and I’m settled down thorough. I have seen but one woman as I thought I’d like to splice.”
“And that was Mrs Hallam’s old maid?”
“Yes, Sir Gordon.”
“Why? She isn’t handsome.”
“Not outside, Sir Gordon; and I don’t rightly know why I took to her, unless it was that she seemed so right down like—such a stick-to-you-through-fair-weather-and-foul sort of woman. But it’s all over now, Sir Gordon. Things won’t turn out as one likes, and it’s of no use to try.”
“You’re right, Tom Porter; you’re a better philosopher than your master. There: that will do. When shall we see land?”
“Morrow morning, Sir Gordon. Daybreak; not afore. Any orders ’bout the shore?”