“Miss Challoner--Captain Bontnor.”
Eve came in, and at her heels Captain Bontnor, who sheered off as it were from the butler, and gave him a wide berth.
Mrs. Harrington could be gracious when she liked. She liked now, and she would have kissed her visitor had that young lady shown any desire for such an honour. But there was a faint reflex of Spanish ceremony in Eve Challoner, of which she was probably unaware. A few years ago it would not have been noticeable, but to-day we are hail-fellow-well-met even with ladies--which is a mistake, on the part of the ladies.
“So you received my letter, my dear,” said Mrs. Harrington.
“Yes,” replied Eve. “This is my uncle--Captain Bontnor.”
Mrs. Harrington had the bad taste to raise her eyebrows infinitesimally, and Captain Bontnor saw it.
“How do you do?” said Mrs. Harrington, with a stiff bow.
“I am quite well, thank you, marm,” replied the sailor, with more aplomb than Eve had yet seen him display.
Without waiting to hear this satisfactory intelligence, Mrs. Harrington turned to Eve again. She evidently intended to ignore Captain Bontnor systematically and completely.
“You know,” she said, “I am related to your father - ”