“No, I suppose not. Nor the 'Changeling'? nor the 'Leprechaun'?” “No.”
Sylvia got off the skylight on which she had been sitting, and surveyed the smoking animal beside her with profound contempt.
“Mr. Frere, you are really a most ignorant person. Excuse me if I hurt your feelings; I have no wish to do that; but really you are a most ignorant person—for your age, of course.”
Maurice Frere grew a little angry. “You are very impertinent, Sylvia,” said he.
“Miss Vickers is my name, Lieutenant Frere, and I shall go and talk to Mr. Bates.”
Which threat she carried out on the spot; and Mr. Bates, who had filled the dangerous office of pilot, told her about divers and coral reefs, and some adventures of his—a little apocryphal—in the China Seas. Frere resumed his smoking, half angry with himself, and half angry with the provoking little fairy. This elfin creature had a fascination for him which he could not account for.
However, he saw no more of her that evening, and at breakfast the next morning she received him with quaint haughtiness.
“When shall we be ready to sail? Mr. Frere, I'll take some marmalade. Thank you.”
“I don't know, missy,” said Bates. “It's very rough on the Bar; me and Mr. Frere was a soundin' of it this marnin', and it ain't safe yet.”
“Well,” said Sylvia, “I do hope and trust we sha'n't be shipwrecked, and have to swim miles and miles for our lives.”