“About four hundred miles to the east of Accomac.”
“How soon shall we get to Accomac?”
“A week, perhaps. It depends on the wind.”
“And then we’ll get ashore?”
“Yes. If you think it safe.”
“What the devil d’you mean?”
Captain Margaret sat back in his chair and looked at Stukeley as an artist looks at his model. Many small, inconsidered, personal acts are revelations of the entire character; the walk, the smile, the sudden lifting of the head or hand, are enough, to the imaginative person. So, now, was Captain Margaret’s look a revelation. One had but to see him, to know the truth of Perrin’s epigram. Perrin had called him “a Quixote turned critic.” He looked at Stukeley as though he were above human anger; his look was almost wistful, but intense. He summed up the man’s character to himself, weighing each point with a shrewd, bitter clearness. His thought was of himself as a boy, pinning the newly killed moth upon the setting-board.
“Look here,” said Stukeley.
“Do you think it safe?”
Stukeley rose from the locker and advanced across the cabin.