“In all seriousness, Mr. Foster, I will not.”
“Why, what have I done to offend you? I thought you—I thought that I——” and then, getting somewhat confused and angry at the same time at Dolly's nonchalant manner, he wound up with, “I believe that damned Dutchman has come between us!”
“How dare you swear at me, sir? I suppose, though, it is the custom for captains in the merchant service to swear at ladies. And what right have you to assume that I should marry you? Because I rather liked to talk to you when I felt dull, is that any reason why you should be so very rude to me? And once for all, sir, I shall never marry a mere merchant sailor—a common whaling master. I shall marry, when I do marry, an officer and a gentleman in the King's service.”
“Ah!” Foster snapped, “and what about the Dutchman?”
Now up to this point Dolly had been making mere pretence. She honestly loved the young seaman, and meant to tell him so plainly before he left the garden, but at this last question the merriment he had failed to see in her eyes gave place to an angry sparkle, and she quickly retorted—
“Mr. Portveldt, sir, is a Dutch gentleman, and he would never talk to me in such a way as you have done. How dare you, sir!”
Foster was really angry now, and smiled sarcastically. “He's but the master of a merchantman, and an infernal Dutchman at that.”
“He is a gentleman, which you are not!” snapped Dolly fiercely; “and if he is but a merchant skipper, he commands his own ship. He is a shipowner, and a well-known Batavian merchant as well, sir; so there!”
“So I believe,” said Foster wrathfully; “sells Dutch cheeses and brings them ashore with him.”
“You're a spy,” said Dolly contemptuously.