‘Mr. Dugdale, you are too young to lecture me.’
‘How old do you think I am?’ said I.
‘Oh, about six-and-twenty,’ she answered with a slight incurious run of her eyes over me that recalled her manner in the Indiaman.
‘Well, if I am,’ said I, ‘it is a good solid age to achieve. There is room for enough experiences in six-and-twenty years to enable a young man to utter several very truthful observations to high-spirited young ladies who insist upon having their way, and then quarrel with everybody because their way is not exactly the road they wish to tread.’
She slightly knitted her fair brows and looked at me fixedly.
‘Mr. Dugdale,’ said she, ‘you would not have dared to talk to me like this on board the Countess Ida.’
‘I was afraid of you there.’
‘You respected me there, you mean, and now—because’—— She came to a stop, with a little quivering at the extremities of her mouth.
‘I am no longer afraid of you, or, rather, I no longer respect you because you happen to be in this particular situation, which needs no explanation whatever: that is, I suppose, what you wish to say. But you misjudge me indeed. I was afraid of you on board the Indiaman, but I did not respect you; nay, my aversion was as cordial as could be possibly imagined in a man who thought you then, as he thinks you still, the handsomest woman he has ever seen in his life, or could ever have dreamt of. But that aversion is passing,’ I continued, watching with delight her marvellous gaze of astonishment and the warm flush that had overspread her face. ‘I am discovering that much of what excited my dislike and regret aboard the Indiaman is artificial, an insincerity in you. This afternoon, whilst you slept, I sat near you for half an hour, gazing at you. All expression of haughtiness had faded from your mouth: your countenance wore an air of exquisite placidity, of gentle kindness, of tender good nature. In short, Miss Temple, I saw you as you are, as your good angel knows you to be, as you have it in your power to appear.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘How shall we kill the blessed hours that lie before us? Only think, it is barely five o’clock.’
She gazed at me with an amazement that seemed to render her speechless; her face was on fire, and her throat blushed to where the collar of her dress circled it. ‘It will not do,’ I continued, ‘to attempt to murder time by talking, or it will come to your killing me instead of the hours. I’ll go and overhaul the late Mr. Chicken’s bedroom, or, rather, his effects. There may be something to interest. Even the mouldiest backgammon board would be worth a million;’ and I made for the little hatch that conducted to our sleeping berths, leaving her motionless at the table.