“She didn’t. She’s gone to London.”
“I hope they’ll take care of Westminster Abbey,” said Mrs. Rust.
The gardener said nothing.
By this time the suffragette was putting romance behind her by means of a little boat limping across a heavy sea. Compared to the Caribbeania, this boat was like my suffragette compared with Mr. Shakespeare’s Desdemona. There was rust on the little boat’s metal, and her paint still bore memories of London smuts. The purser was occasionally to be seen in his shirt sleeves, and the Captain had a button off his coat.
The priest was on board, returning to his flock, overflowing with material for sermons. By mutual consent he and the suffragette ignored each other. He made an attempt to approach Albert, with his special children’s manner, but that cultured youth quickly silenced him. So he occupied himself in trying to save the soul of the second officer, a docile youth, of humble and virtuous tendency.
Within two days the little boat reached the Isthmus which has lately been converted into one of the wonders of the world.
“My poor Albert,” said the suffragette. “I’m afraid the doctor says you mustn’t go to see the Canal. It’s so dusty. And you know such a lot about it, don’t you? It is disappointing.”
“I dow quite edough about it,” replied Albert. “I have do wish whatever to see it. I dow every detail of its codstructiod.”
“That’s all right, then. The doctor says when it’s cool after dark, you may walk as far as the gardens behind the quay, and listen to the band.”
“I do dot wish to hear the badd. I wish you ad Ah-Bargaret to go away for the whole day, ad let the youggest stewardess cob ad sit with be. She is a charbig persod, ad it would be very good for you to see the Cadal.”