I would have ventured to tell you a good deal about that young lady’s character, had I never heard her speak another word.  The association, the choice of words, the sombre music of the old English—­all were enough to show the bent of her mind.

At last she turned, and said, “When do you think we shall sight them?”

The man at the wheel shouted, “Somewheres towards midnight, Miss.  We’re a-goin’ through it middling smart, and we can always draw on them.”

Then the girl went below into the warm glow of the saloon.  A sweet-faced lady smiled softly, and said, “Is it poetry to-night, or a new scheme for regenerating everything?” The tone was caressing and half-admiring, and the younger lady’s still smile in reply was like a revelation; it showed that she accepted banter, but was too serious to return it.  Marion Dearsley and her aunt, Mrs. Walton, understood each other:  the matron pretended to laugh at her niece’s gravity, but the genuine relation between the pair was that of profound mutual confidence and fondness.

The soft gleam of the lamps showed a very pleasant group in the roomy, comfortable saloon.  A stout, black-bearded man lounged carelessly on a sofa, supporting himself with one huge hand as the vessel kicked awkwardly.  He looked as if he had been born with a smile, and every line of his great face was disposed so as to express vast contentment and good-humour.  You could not call him finely bred, but when he observed, in terrific bass tones, “Hah!  Miss Dearsley, you have gazed on the what’s-his-name; you love the storm; you find it fahscinating—­oh! fahscinating; ah! fahscinating!  I like an ignoble cabin and a pipe, but the what’s-his-name is fahscinating—­ah! fahscinating.”  His infectious good-humour was better than any graces.  Then his pride in his phrases was very fine to behold, and he regarded his repetition of his sonorous adjective as quite an original thing in the way of pure rhetoric.  Tom Lennard was by inheritance a merchant, by choice a philanthropist; he was naturally religious, but he could not help regarding his philanthropic work as a great frolic, and he often scandalized reformers of a more serious disposition.  The excellent Joseph Naylor, who was never seen to smile, and who was popularly supposed to sleep in his black frock-coat and high stock, once met Tom on a platform.  When Tom was introduced to the prim, beneficent Joseph his enthusiasm overcame him; he brought his colossal paw down on Mr. Naylor’s shoulder so that the poor man showed signs of shutting up like a concertina inside the frock-coat; he squeezed Joseph’s hand so fervently that the poor victim looked like a dentist’s patient, and Thomas roared like an amiable Bull of Bashan, “Bah!  Aw’m glad to see this day, sir.  To think we should meet at last!  Ah! fahscinating!—­oh! fahscinating.”

Mr. Naylor bore the shock like a true philosopher, but at home that evening he mildly observed, “My dear, our new ally, Mr. Lennard, is most friendly, most cordial, quite impressively cordial; but do you know I should not like to sign a cheque just now.  His cordiality has had distinct effect on my joints, and I wish really that his left hand were lighter.  Social intercourse can only be carried on with difficulty when you feel as if a large sack had fallen on you from the third floor of a warehouse.”