“You look after your own head,” said Nancy elegantly, without looking up.
“Girls in those novels don’t talk to their mothers like that,” said the elder woman severely.
“They have different sorts of mothers,” said Nancy, serenely turning over a page. “I hate little pokey ships and sailors smelling of tar. I never saw a sailor I liked yet.”
The mate’s face fell. “There’s sailors and sailors,” he suggested humbly.
“It’s no good talking to her,” said the mother, with a look of fat resignation on her face, “we can only let her go her own way; if you talked to her twenty-four hours right off it wouldn’t do her any good.”
“I’d like to try,” said the mate, plucking up spirit.
“Would you?” said the girl, for the first time raising her head and looking him full in the face. “Impudence!”
“Perhaps you haven’t seen many ships,” said the impressionable mate, his eyes devouring her face. “Would you like to come and have a look at our cabin?”
“No, thanks!” said the girl sharply. Then she smiled maliciously. “I daresay mother would, though; she’s fond of poking her nose into other people’s business.”
The mother regarded her irreverent offspring fixedly for a few moments. The mate interposed.