“Quite unnecessary, Knowles,” he said. “Least I could do, it seems to me. I pulled quite a tidy bit from that inside information of yours; I did really. Awfully obliged, and all that. You seem to have a wide acquaintance among the officers. That captain chap tells us he knew your father—the sailor one you told me of, you understand.”
Having had but one father I understood perfectly. We chatted in a inconsequential way for a short time. In the course of our conversation I happened to mention that I wrote, professionally. To my surprise Heathcroft was impressed.
“Do you, really!” he exclaimed. “That's interesting, isn't it now! I have a cousin who writes. Don't know why she does it; she doesn't get her writings printed, but she keeps on. It is a habit of hers. Curious dissipation—eh, what? Does that—er—Miss—that companion of yours, write also?”
I laughed and informed him that writing was not one of Hephzibah's bad habits.
“Extraordinary woman, isn't she,” he said. “I met her just now, walking about, and I happened to mention that I was taking the air. She said she wouldn't quarrel with me because of that. The more I took the better she would like it; she could spare about a gale and a quarter and not feel—What did she call it? Oh yes, 'scrimped.' What is 'scrimped,' may I ask?”
I explained the meaning of “scrimped.” Heathcroft was much amused.
“It WAS blowing a bit strong up forward there,” he declared. “That was a clever way of putting it, wasn't it?”
“She is a clever woman,” I said, shortly.
Heathcroft did not enthuse.
“Oh,” he said dubiously. “A relative of yours, I suppose.”