Lovibond settled himself on the sofa beside Davy, and drew a deep breath. “I’ve seen her again, Capt’n,” he said, solemnly.
“The sweet little lily in the church, sir?” said Davy.
“Yes,” said Lovibond; and, after another deep breath, “I’ve spoken to her.”
“Out with it, sir; out with it,” said Davy, and then, putting one hand on Lovibond’s knee caressingly, “I’ve seen trouble in my time, mate; you may trust me—go on, what is it?”
“She’s married,” said Lovibond.
Davy gave a prolonged whistle. “That’s bad,” he said. “I’m symperthizing with you. You’ve been fishing with another man’s floats and losing your labor. I’m feeling for you. ‘Deed I am.”
“It’s not myself I’m thinking of,” said Lovibond. “It’s that angel of a woman. She’s not only married, but married to a brute.”
“That’s wuss still,” said Davy.
“And not only married to a brute,” said Lovibond, “but parted from him.”
Davy gave a yet longer whistle. “O-ho, O-ho! A quarrel is it?” he cried. “Husband and wife, eh? Aw, take care, sir, take care. Women is ‘cute. Extraordinary wayses they’ve at them of touching a man up under the watch-pocket of the weskit till you’d never think nothing but they’re angels fresh down from heaven, and you could work at the docks to keep them; but maybe cunning as ould Harry all the time, and playing the divil with some poor man. It’s me for knowing them. Husband and wife? That’ll do, that’ll do. Lave them alone, mate, lave them alone.”