“Thank you, whichever you drink.”
“I drink neither,” answered Mrs. Saltren, drawing herself up. “I taste nothing but tea and water; but when an old friend comes and sees me, I make an exception. I have some whisky in the sideboard—Giles suffers in his inside, and I’m obliged to keep it by me against his attacks. If you will allow me, I will get it out.”
She rang for water and tumblers, and produced the spirits and sugar.
“Now tell me some further news of Orleigh,” she said, as she stirred a glass.
“There has been the cottage of Patience Kite done up again,” said he, “and she has gone back into it, which is unfortunate, for it would have suited me if I work the old quarry.”
“But surely it would not be large enough for you, cap’n?”
He shook his head. He had finished his glass, and now abstractedly he half filled it with water.
“Since poor Arkie died, I’m very lonely. It is fifteen years since I buried my wife. I feel as lonely as does this drop o’ water in the tumbler, without spirits to qualify it.”
Mrs. Saltren pushed the whisky bottle towards him.
“Mix to your liking, captain,” she said.