He usually met the postman when he was keeping his watch on deck - beneath the little bay-window--and if there was a letter for Eve, he would pause in front of the house, and hand it through the open sash.
He did this one morning after they had been in the lodgings a month, and he had not added two turns to the regulation forty before Eve called to him. He bustled in at the door, hung his old straw hat on a peg, which was likewise too high, and went into the little parlour. As he was smoking, he stood in the doorway, for he had not yet got over his immense respect for the niece who was above him.
“Yes, dearie?” he said. “What to do now?”
Eve was standing near the window, holding a letter in her hand.
“Listen!” she said, and spreading out her elbows she read grandly--
“‘MADAM,--I like your Spanish Notes and Sketches; but I cannot put in number one until I see number two. Send me more, or, better still, if convenient, when you are next in town, do me the honour of calling here.--Yours very truly--’
“Now listen, uncle.”
“Yes, dear!”
“‘Yours very truly,
“‘JOHN CRAIK.’“
“Lor!” ejaculated Captain Bontnor, “the gentleman that writes.”