Then she gives a little smile--and then a little nod--more scornful than all the rest.
"You never are surprised, are you, Mr.Cole ?" says she.

"You were not surprised when the wretch used horrible language in front of me! You were not surprised when it was a--dying man--whom he abused!" I try to soothe her.

I agree heartily with her disgust at the epithets employed in her hearing, and towards an invalid, by the irate skipper.
But I ask her to make allowances for a rough, uneducated man, rather clumsily touched upon his tender spot.

I shall conciliate her presently; the divine pout (so childish it was!) is fading from her lips; the starlight is on the tulle and lace and roses of her pretty evening dress, with its festooned skirts and obsolete flounces; and I am watching her, ay, and worshipping her, though I do not know it yet.

And as we stand there comes another snatch from the forecastle:-- "What will you do, love, when I am going.
With white sail flowing, The seas beyond?
What will you do, love--" "They may make the most of that song," says Miss Denison grimly; "it's the last they'll have from me.