At daybreak accordingly the brig set sail, with a light breeze from the south-west, and by three o'clock in the afternoon anchored safely outside the Gates. Unfortunately the wind shifted to the north-west, which caused a heavy swell on the bar, and prudent Mr. Bates, having consideration for Mrs. Vickers and the child, ran back ten miles into Wellington Bay, and anchored there again at seven o'clock in the morning. The tide was running strongly, and the brig rolled a good deal. Mrs. Vickers kept to her cabin, and sent Sylvia to entertain Lieutenant Frere. Sylvia went, but was not entertaining. She had conceived for Frere one of those violent antipathies which children sometimes own without reason, and since the memorable night of the apology had been barely civil to him. In vain did he pet her and compliment her, she was not to be flattered into liking him. “I do not like you, sir,” she said in her stilted fashion, “but that need make no difference to you. You occupy yourself with your prisoners; I can amuse myself without you, thank you.” “Oh, all right,” said Frere, “I don't want to interfere”; but he felt a little nettled nevertheless. On this particular evening the young lady relaxed her severity of demeanour. Her father away, and her mother sick, the little maiden felt lonely, and as a last resource accepted her mother's commands and went to Frere. He was walking up and down the deck, smoking.
“Mr. Frere, I am sent to talk to you.”
“Are you? All right—go on.”
“Oh dear, no. It is the gentleman's place to entertain. Be amusing!”
“Come and sit down then,” said Frere, who was in good humour at the success of his arrangements. “What shall we talk about?”
“You stupid man! As if I knew! It is your place to talk. Tell me a fairy story.”
“'Jack and the Beanstalk'?” suggested Frere.
“Jack and the grandmother! Nonsense. Make one up out of your head, you know.”
Frere laughed.
“I can't,” he said. “I never did such a thing in my life.”