"Nigel," said the captain, in a tone and with a look that were meant to imply intense solemnity, "have you ever spoken to her about love?"
"No, father."
"Has she ever spoken to you?"
"No—at least—not with her lips."
"Come, boy, you're humbuggin' your old father. Her tongue couldn't well do it without the lips lendin' a hand."
"Well then—with neither," returned the son. "She spoke with her eyes—not intentionally, of course, for the eyes, unlike the lips, refuse to be under control."
"Hm! I see—reef-point-patterin' poetics again! An' what did she say with her eyes?"
"Really, father, you press me too hard; it is difficult to translate eye-language, but if you'll only let memory have free play and revert to that time, nigh quarter of a century ago, when you first met with a certain real poetess, perhaps—"
"Ah! you dog! you have me there. But how dare you, sir, venture to think of marryin' on nothin'?"
"I don't think of doing so. Am I not a first mate with a handsome salary?"