But at breakfast that morning the presence of the three men (and the prospect of their future presence) had shown her how much she longed for the quiet retirement of a home, where life could be culled, chosen, made up as one makes a nosegay, by beautiful friends, art, music, all the essences of life, all doubly precious to her now that life had become so precious.
“Tom,” she said, “Tom, dear, I want to talk to you about our life here. I don’t think it can go on, dear.”
“Why, little Olive, what’s up? What ruffles your serenity?”
“Tom, dear, I cannot bear this ship life. And those three men. At every meal I feel that one of them is watching me. Oh, and no woman to talk to. I think of our lovely times at Salcombe, Tom. We could shut the door; and it would be just our two selves.”
“Jolly times at Salcombe, hadn’t we? But what’s the matter, eh?”
“This ship life, Tom. It’s that. The men are so rude, and so rude to you, Tom. I can’t go on with it. I want to go back to England.”
“But I’ve promised to go to Darien, Olive.”
“I know, dear. I know. Don’t think me very foolish, Tom. But I don’t think I’m strong enough. Tom, darling, could not we leave this life? Think how rude Mr. Cottrill was to you only the other day. I do so long for our old happy life together. Away from the sea.”
“Look here, Livy. I understand. You’re lonely. Suppose we go and stay ashore for a while. You would meet ladies ashore. You’ve met them already.”
“Tom, I can’t meet those ladies. They’re not nice.”