“Won’t you sit down?” said the girl, hospitably. “Yes, I guess I’ll have some dinner. Isn’t it pretty late for it?”
“I reckon you’re from the country,” said the stewardess, dropping like a stone on the couch, that gave a low groan at her contact. “We don’t have supper till nine. Lunch is in the middle o’ the day.”
“Indeed,” said Nina, quietly.
“I hope you find everythin’ comfortable,” said the woman, gazing approvingly at the frank, pretty face bent on her. “It’s a blessing you ain’t goin’ to be sick. I see you with the capting. He don’t gen’rally bother with passengers. P’raps he knows your fam’ly.”
From Nina’s earliest recollection Captain Fordyce had been a forbidden subject of conversation; and she had been strictly warned not to mention his name outside her own home, so she responded, vaguely, that he was an old friend of her parents.
“He keeps—mostly to himself,” panted the stewardess. “He’s an odd man—is the capting. Kind of grouchy and queer. I guess he’s led a tough life. Hard work, few friends, little play. Do you fancy him, miss?”
“No more did I at first,” said the woman, sympathetically. “It’ll come to you, miss. He’s got a soft spot under his hard shell. Many’s the good deed he does. The men all like him, though he’s a bit hard at first. I heard the second officer—he’s new to the ship—tell the doctor that he’s a reg’lar martin—martin—”
“Martinet,” suggested Nina.
“That’s it, miss, but I say it takes all kind o’ folks to make a world; and if the capting hasn’t got his lips smeared with honey, he knows fine how to work a ship. Come on, my dear young lady. The capting’ll think you’re not a-coming,” and she shuffled down a passage leading to the long, low dining-saloon.