"Mr. Beverley, sir," said the Bo'sun, pegging away at the carpet as he spoke, "is it—meaning no offence, and axing your pardon,—but are you hauling your wind and standing away for Hawkhurst so prompt on 'account o' my Lady Cleone?"
"Yes, Bo'sun, on account of our Lady Cleone."
"Why, then, sir," said the Bo'sun, fixing his eyes on the ceiling again, "by your leave—but,—why, sir?"
"Because, Bo'sun, you and I have this in common, that we both—love her."
Here the Bo'sun dropped his glazed hat, and picking it up, sat turning it this way and that, in his big, brown fingers.
"Why, then, sir," said he, looking up at Barnabas suddenly, "what of Master Horatio, his Lordship?"
"Why, Bo'sun, I told him about it weeks ago. I had to. You see, he honors me with his friendship."
The Bo'sun nodded, and broke into his slow smile:
"Ah, that alters things, sir," said he. "As for loving my lady—why? who could help it?"
"Who, indeed, Bo'sun!"