“Any one must have observed that, Rose,” answered the young man, gazing up at the wall, in order not to be compelled to look the beautiful creature before him in the eyes—“Mrs. Budd has very strong tastes that way.”
“Now tell me, Harry—that is, answer me frankly—I mean—she is not always right, is she?”
“Why, no; not absolutely so—that is, not absolutely always so—few persons are always right, you know.”
Rose remained silent and embarrassed for a moment; after which she pursued the discourse.
“But aunty does not know as much of the sea and of ships as she thinks she does?”
“Perhaps not. We all overrate our own acquirements. I dare say that even I am not as good a seaman as I fancy myself to be.”
“Even Spike admits that you are what he calls 'a prime seaman.' But it is not easy for a woman to get a correct knowledge of the use of all the strange, and sometimes uncouth, terms that you sailors use.”
“Certainly not, and for that reason I would rather you should never attempt it, Rose. We rough sons of the ocean would prefer to hear our wives make divers pretty blunders, rather than to be swaggering about like so many 'old salts.'”
“Mr. Mulford! Does Aunt Budd swagger like an old salt?”
“Dearest Rose, I was not thinking of your aunt, but of you. Of you, as you are, feminine, spirited, lovely alike in form and character, and of you a graduate of the ocean, and full of its language and ideas.”