"Stop a bit, Scip. We did speak. We spoke about the blind beggar."
"I knew you were talking nonsense. You talked all the way. But who was the blind beggar?"
"A friend of Scip's—at least, a father of one of his young ladies."
Miss Arkroyd looked amused more than curious. "You haven't told us of this one," said she. "Or have you?"
"I have had nothing official to communicate, so far. Possibly a mere passing tendresse. I have only known the young lady a very short time. I will promise further information as soon as there is anything to communicate."
Miss Arkroyd continued to look at the speaker as though to find out his real meaning, half in doubt, half taking him au sérieux. But her brother struck in, saying: "Nothing interesting, Judith. This one's too young, and might be unsuitable from other points of view—eh, Scip?"
"The family connection," Scipio answers reflectively, "may have drawbacks. Nevertheless, I find, when I indulge in the position, hypothetically, of a son-in-law, that I do not shrink from the image of the relation I have created. It has a sort of sense about it of the starboard watch, and keeping a good look-out on foc'sles, and knowing how to splice cables. By-the-by, Will, this is an accomplishment that might prove useful in my family—splicing cables, I mean. I am certain that we can't, at present, any of us. Even my half-brother, though his grandfather—on his mother's side—is an Admiral, cannot splice a cable...."
"Never mind the cables! Go on about the blind beggar."
Her brother, as one who knows his friend's disposition to wander, supplies consecutive narrative: "The blind beggar's that sailor at the railway. Most likely you've seen him.... No?"—replying to a disclaiming headshake.—"Well!—take him for granted. The child's his child."
"What child?"