“He works too hard,” said Beauchamp.
“Who does?”
“Dr. Shrapnel.”
Some one else whom we have heard of works too hard, and it would be happy for mankind if he did not.
Cecilia named the schooner; an American that had beaten our crack yachts. Beauchamp sprang up to spy at the American.
“That’s the Corinne, is she!”
Yankee craftiness on salt water always excited his respectful attention as a spectator.
“And what is the name of your boat, Nevil?”
“The fool of an owner calls her the Petrel. It’s not that I’m superstitious, but to give a boat a name of bad augury to sailors appears to me... however, I’ve argued it with him and I will have her called the Curlew. Carrying Dr. Shrapnel and me, Petrel would be thought the proper title for her—isn’t that your idea?”
He laughed and she smiled, and then he became overcast with his political face, and said, “I hope—I believe—you will alter your opinion of him. Can it be an opinion when it’s founded on nothing? You know really nothing of him. I have in my pocket what I believe would alter your mind about him entirely. I do think so; and I think so because I feel you would appreciate his deep sincerity and real nobleness.”