Malcolm was at home when they arrived, irreproachably dressed and languidly non-effusive, as usual. Captain Elisha, as he often said, did not “set much store” by clothes; but there was something about this young man which always made him conscious that his own trousers were a little too short, or his boots too heavy, or something. “I wouldn’t wear a necktie like his,” he wrote Abbie, after his first meeting with Malcolm, “but blessed if I don’t wish I could if I would!”
Caroline, in the course of conversation during the luncheon, mentioned the Moriartys and their sorrow. The captain tried to head her off and to change the subject, but with little success. He was uncomfortable and kept glancing under his brows at Malcolm, with whom, under the circumstances, he could not help sympathizing to an extent. But his sympathy was wasted. The young man did not appear in the slightest degree nervous. The memory of his recent interview with Captain Elisha did not embarrass him, outwardly at least, half as much as it did the captain. He declared that old Pat’s death was beastly hard luck, but accidents were bound to happen. It was a shame, and all that. “If there’s anything the mater and I can do, Caroline, call on us, of course.”
“Yes, do, Caroline,” concurred his mother. “However, one must be philosophic in such cases. It is a mercy that people in their station do not feel grief and loss as we do. Providence, in its wisdom, has limited their susceptibilities as it has their intelligence. Don’t you agree with me, Captain Warren?”
“Sartin!” was the prompt reply. “It’s always a comfort to me, when I go fishin’, to know that the fish ain’t got so much brains as I have. The hook hurts, I presume likely, but they ain’t got the sense to realize what a mean trick’s been played on ’em. The one that’s caught’s dead, and them that are left are too busy hustlin’ for the next meal to waste much time grievin’. That eases my conscience consider’ble.”
Caroline seemed to be the only one who appreciated the sarcasm in this observation. She frowned slightly. Mrs. Corcoran Dunn tolerantly smiled, and her son laughed aloud.
“Say, Admiral,” he commented, “when it comes to philosophy you go some yourself, don’t you?”
“Um-hm. I can be as philosophical about other folk’s troubles as anybody I ever see.” Then, with an involuntary chuckle of admiration at the young gentleman’s coolness, he added, “That is, anybody I ever see afore I come to New York.”
Malcolm opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again. The captain, noticing his change of purpose and following the direction of his look, saw Mrs. Dunn shake her head in sharp disapproval. He ate the remainder of his salad in silence, but he thought a good deal.
“And now,” said Mrs. Dunn, rising and leading the way to the drawing-room, “we must all go for a motor ride. Everyone rides on Sunday afternoon,” she explained, turning to her male guest.
The distressed look returned to Captain Elisha’s face. His niece saw it, understood, and came to his rescue.