“You’ve been doing that the last hour or two,” he said, good temperedly.
“Ah, but I mean seriously,” she said.
At tea on the gravelled space near to the sleepy owls Robert encountered friends whose presence deferred the weighty talk, friends in the person of the angel from Folkestone, now clearly Mrs. Customs Officer, her husband and a large-eyed astonished baby in a white beef-eater hat. The angel came over from her table on recognizing Robert and declared that the news of this meeting would do poor uncle more good than all the embrocation in the world.
“Allow me,” said Robert with importance, “to introduce my”—he coughed—“fiancée.”
Trixie on this introduction assumed a distant manner, and sat alone with a reticent air, while Robert went over to speak to long Mr. Customs, and to dance the amazed infant high into the air. The angel had grown very matronly; the Customs seemed to be well under her control, insomuch that he never commenced a sentence without finding himself instantly arrested and brushed aside by his wife. On Robert rallying the angel on this, the angel laughed good-humouredly, declaring that it was well for one or the other to be master, and prophesying that some day Robert would find this out for himself, whereupon Robert insisted that women must not be too tyrannical, and endeavoured to enlist the Customs on his side in the argument, but the Customs shook his head vaguely (being it seemed with no grievance to complain of), and begged not to be dragged into the discussion.
“What name was it you called me just now?” demanded Trixie, when he had returned to her. Robert explained, and Trixie’s young forehead cleared. “That reminds me,” she said, resting one small shoe on the bar of Robert’s chair, “I want to talk sense now.”
“Why?”
“I want you,” she said slowly and carefully, “to promise me—”
“I’ll promise anything you like.”
“To promise me that you’ll give up all idea of being a sailor, and take up some occupation on land.”