“They're going to be married at Christmas,” said the mate, choking in his cup.
The skipper sat upright again, and tried manfully to compose his features. Many things he had not understood before were suddenly made clear, and he remembered now the odd way in which the girl had regarded him as she bade him good-night on the previous evening. The mate eyed him with interest, and was about to supply him with further details when his attention was attracted by footsteps descending the companion-ladder. Then he put down his cup with great care, and stared in stolid amazement at the figure of Miss Jewell in the doorway.
“I'm a bit late,” she said, flushing slightly.
She crossed over and shook hands with the skipper, and, in the most natural fashion in the world, took a seat and began to remove her gloves. The mate swung round and regarded her open-mouthed; the skipper, whose ideas were in a whirl, sat regarding her in silence. The mate was the first to move; he left the cabin rubbing his shin, and casting furious glances at the skipper.
“You didn't expect to see me?” said the girl, reddening again.
“No,” was the reply.
The girl looked at the tablecloth. “I came to beg your pardon,” she said, in a low voice.
“There's nothing to beg my pardon for,” said the skipper, clearing his throat. “By rights I ought to beg yours. You did quite right to make fun of me. I can see it now.”
“When you asked me whether I was Bert's sister I didn't like to say 'no,'” continued the girl; “and at first I let you come out with me for the fun of the thing, and then Bert said it would be good for him, and then—then—”
“Yes,” said the skipper, after a long pause.