Mr. Dickett pushed little Penelope gently off his knee and stroked a whitening whisker.
"Molly's baby was a boy, mother—I know you'd want to hear," he said.
Mrs. Dickett was silent.
"Her husband's bought a third interest in the boat," he went on firmly, "and she says he'll probably be captain some day."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Dickett.
"They've stopped carrying passengers and the rooms are fitted up for them, quite private, she writes, and the boy weighed nine pounds. I'm thinking of going down to see them, when they get in to this country again, mother. Would you care to see her husband's picture? He's a fine looking chap—six feet, she writes."
"I don't care about it," said Mrs. Dickett, through thin lips. "It is a relief, however, to learn that she is no longer a chambermaid."
"Come, come, mother, the ship's boy did all the emptying, you know," Mr. Dickett urged tolerantly. "It seems a roving sort of life, to us, I know, and unsettled, but if they like it, why I can't see any real harm..."
"Tastes differ," said his wife grimly—and so, God knows, they do!