“That would be costly. And what skirt? A black skirt, I suppose?”
“A very full black skirt. What do you think about a belt? Would you wear that belt of yours? The one with the Venetian silver-work?”
“I don’t know about a belt. I thought you were going to design everything?”
“Not a belt, then. And black shoes, with small, oval, cut-steel buckles.”
“I should think that would be very pretty.” Her thoughts were wandering in England, down a lane of beech trees within sound of the sea, to a hillock of short grass, cropped by the sheep, where sea-pinks and sea-holly sprouted.
“What are the sailors like?” she asked. “I saw you working up aloft with them. What are they like to talk to?”
“Oh. They’re all right.”
“I think they’re dreadful people.”
“Why?” said Perrin. “What makes you think they’re dreadful?”
“No nice man would take such a life. Oh. It must be dreadful. I shudder when I see them. What do they talk of, among themselves?”