When Philip and Kate were together, their talk was all of Pete. It was “Pete likes this,” and “Pete hates that,” and “Pete always says so and so.” That was their way of keeping up the recollection of Pete's existence; and the uses they put poor Pete to were many and peculiar.
One night “The Manx Fairy” was merry and noisy with a “Scaltha,” a Christmas supper given by the captain of a fishing-boat to the crew that he meant to engage for the season. Wives, sweethearts, and friends were there, and the customs and superstitions of the hour were honoured.
“Isn't it the funniest thing in the world, Philip?” giggled Kate from the back of the door, and a moment afterwards she was standing alone with him in the lobby, looking demurely down at his boots.
“I suppose I ought to apologise.”
“Why so?”
“For calling you that.”
“Pete calls me Philip. Why shouldn't you?”
The furtive eyes rose to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Well, no; there can't be much harm in calling you what Pete calls you, can there? But then—”
“Well?”
“He calls me Kate.”