“No; I’ve heard of it, though. I know of a wom - a lady, who has large estates there--a Mrs. Harrington.”
“The Honourable Mrs. Harrington is a sort of relation of my niece’s, Miss Challoner. I call her Miss Challoner, although she is my niece, because she is above me.”
His lordship glanced at the ceiling again.
“I mean she is a lady. And I’m going to Majorca to fetch her. At least, I’m trying to get there, but I cannot somehow find out about the boat. They’re a bit irregular, it seems, and this stupid jabbering of theirs does flurry me so. Now, what’s this? Eh? Pudding, is it? Well, it doesn’t look like it. No, thank ye!”
The poor old man was soon upset by insignificant trifles, and after he had given way to a little burst of petulance like this, he had a strange, half pathetic way of staring straight in front of him for a few seconds, as if collecting himself again.
It happened that Lord Seahampton was a good-natured young man, with rather a soft heart, such as many horsey persons possess. Something in Captain Bontnor touched him; some simple British quality which he was pleased to meet with, thus, in a foreign land.
“Look here,” he said, “I’ll go out with you afterwards and find out all about the boat, take your ticket, and fix the whole thing up.”
“I’m sure you’re very kind,” began the old sailor hesitatingly. He fumbled at his necktie for a moment with unsteady, weather-beaten hands. “But I shouldn’t like to trespass on your time. I take it you’re here for pleasure?”
Lord Seahampton smiled.
“Yes, I’m here for pleasure; that’s what I’m in the world for.”