“And what was her tex’, mate?”
“Beauty, grace, truth, the tenderness of a true heart, the sweetness of a soul that is fresh and pure.”
Davy looked up with vast solemnity. “Take care,” said he. “There’s odds of women, sir. They’re like sheep’s broth is women. If there’s a heart and head in them they’re good, and if there isn’t you might as well be supping hot water. Faces isn’t the chronometer to steer your boat to the good ones. Now I’ve seen some you could swear to——.”
“I’ll swear to this one,” said Lovibond with an appearance of tremendous earnestness.
Davy looked at him, gravely. “D’ye say so?” said he.
“Such eyes, Capt’n—big and full, and blue, and then pale, pale blue, in the whites of them too, like—like——.”
“I know,” said Davy; “like a blackbird’s eggs with the young birds just breaking out of them.”
“Just,” said Lovibond, “And then her hair, Capt’n—brown, that brown with a golden bloom, as if it must have been yellow when she was a child.”
“I know the sort, sir,” said Davy, proudly; “like the ling on the mountains in May, with the gorse creeping under it.”
“Exactly. And then her voice, Cap tain, her voice—.”