“Why, I must come and see all this,” said Mrs. Eversleigh, in an interested way.
“Do come,” said Captain Fordyce, turning to her; “we are only seventy-five miles from London, you know. You can take a run down some morning, and return in the evening if you wish.”
“Yes, let us go,” said Captain Eversleigh, glancing at his wife’s pale face, “a breath of the salt air will do you good,” and he proceeded to make arrangements with Captain Fordyce.
“And where are you going next?” said Mrs. Eversleigh to Nina.
“To Spain for a cargo of wine and fruit.”
“Don’t you get tired of these long voyages? What do you do to amuse yourself?”
“She runs up and down the ship with her baby on her back,” said Captain Fordyce, turning around.
Nina was disturbed. This was an undignified thing to tell the very grand lady before them. “I only do that occasionally,” she said, stiffly; and, darting a rebuking glance at him, “I have a great many other occupations. I read, and sew, and paint, and practise several hours a day. I have a piano and an organ, too.” The old-time child-like naïveté was delightfully revealed in her manner and speech at this moment.
“And she shoots at things hung up in the rigging,” went on her husband, who seemed bent on teasing her, “and talks nonsense to me, and writes letters to the dear five hundred friends she makes in every port we touch.”
Nina’s displeasure had passed away. “And sometimes there are useful things to do,” she said, seriously. “Sometimes sailors get ill,—do you know anything about life on sailing ships, dear Lena Eversleigh?”