While she was watching him do it, there was a knock at the door. As she was nearest, she opened it. Her schoolboy friend stood before her, his cap in one hand, a small dish in the other.
“I have brought you some cold beef, Mrs. Fordyce,” he said, without raising his eyes, and with such affecting humility of manner that Nina bit her lip to keep from laughing. “There was nothing else,” he added, sadly; “the stewards say there has been an unusual run on the fowls this evening.”
Nina threw resentment to the winds, and gave him her sweetest smile of acknowledgment. “It was kind in you, very kind to trouble yourself about it.”
He raised his eyes, impudent and merry as ever, to her face. “I have brought only a little seasoning,” he said, meaningly, “only a scant supply of anything hot,—pepper, mustard, and the like. In some way or other I fancied you wouldn’t require much;” and, running down the steps, he disappeared.
“Who was that?” asked her husband, as she returned to her seat.
“A naughty, naughty boy, but very nice. I don’t know his name.”
“What is his age?” asked Captain Fordyce, jealously.
“Fifteen, I should say. He pretends to know you.”
“Oh, young Dacy,—he is only a child,” and he looked relieved.
“I met him when I was coming here with a chicken. I had a whole one in case you would like a piece. He came tumbling down-stairs and almost made me fall. Then we got talking.”