Among those listening to the conversation was a group of three individuals: a man of more than fifty years of age, a girl of less than fourteen, and a woman whose summers and winters might number about midway between.
The man was tall, with an aspect of the kind usually termed aristocratic. It was not stern; but of that mild type verging upon the venerable—an expression strengthened by hair nearly white, seen under the selvedge of his travelling-cap.
The girl was an interesting creature. She was still but a mere child and wearing the dress of one—a gown sleeveless, and with short skirt—the hair hanging loose over her shoulders.
But under the skirt were limbs of a tournure that told of approaching puberty; while her profuse locks, precious on account of their rich colour, appeared to call for pins and a comb.
Despite the difficulty of comparing the features of a man of fifty and a child of fourteen, there was enough resemblance between these two to give the idea of father and daughter. It was confirmed by the relative position in which they stood; he holding her paternally by the hand.
Between them and the woman the relationship was of quite a different nature, and needed only a glance to make it known. The buff complexion of the latter, with the “white turban” upon her head, told her to be a servant.
She stood a little behind them.
The man alone appeared to heed what was being said; the girl and servant were more interested in the movements of the people upon the wharf.
The brief conversation ended, he approached the original speaker with the half-whispered question:
“You say there are no Americans in this movement. Is Captain Maynard not one?”