“A nice compliment, Mr. Robert Sinclair,” she replied, smiling. “And you too are looking well.”
“Have I got roses on my cheeks?” I said.
“Yes,” she said; “peony roses.”
“And how is baby?”
“O, look at her; isn’t she charming?”
I gave baby a finger, which she at once proceeded to eat with as much relish as if she had been a young cannibal. And so our reunion was complete. At dinner that day we were all exceedingly happy and full of mirth and fun. We had so much to tell each other, too; for during my sojourn in Ecuador the Southern Hope had been on a long cruise among the Pacific islands, where everything had seemed so strange and delightfully foreign to both Captain and Mrs. Herbert, that, they told me, it was like being in another world.
The steward—I have good reason for mentioning this—was most assiduous in his attentions at table that day. He was a short, broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, half-caste Spaniard, exceedingly clever, as Mrs. Herbert assured me, but possessed of those dark shifty eyes that seem unable to trust anyone, or to inspire trust in others.
When dessert was put on the table—a dessert of such fruits as princes in England could not procure—Mrs. Herbert motioned to him that he might now retire. He only smiled and shrugged his shoulders in reply, and presently he was entirely forgotten.
So our conversation rattled on. I told my adventures much to the delight of every one, but especially to that of our young mate and little Bernard, although the child was barely seven years of age.
“And those mysterious boxes, Mr. Sinclair,” said Mrs. Herbert, “when will you open those?”