“It matters not; salt or bilge water makes little difference,” returned the son with a smile. “But all I can say is that I care for Winnie so much that her love is to me of as much importance as sunshine to the world—and we have had some experience lately of what the want of that means.”
“Nonsense, Nigel,” returned the captain severely. “You’re workin’ yourself into them up-in-the-clouds, reef-point-patterin’ regions again—which, by the way, should be pretty well choked wi’ Krakatoa dust by this time. Come down out o’ that if ye want to hold or’nary intercourse wi’ your old father. She’s far too young yet, my boy. You must just do as many a young fellow has done before you, attend to your dooties and forget her.”
“Forget her!” returned the youth, with that amused, quiet expression which wise men sometimes assume when listening to foolish suggestions. “I could almost as easily forget my mother!”
“A very proper sentiment, Nigel, very—especially the ‘almost’ part of it.”
“Besides,” continued the son, “she is not so very young—and that difficulty remedies itself every hour. Moreover, I too am young. I can wait.”
“The selfishness of youth is only equalled by its presumption,” said the captain. “How d’ee know she will wait?”
“I don’t know, father, but I hope she will—I—think she will.”
“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?”