She stared at him.  “What has that to do with it? . . .  Besides, whatever you’re drivin’ at, I didn’ mean as all writin’ was unnatural.  I got to do enough of it for Mr Rogers, the Lord knows!  But for them two, as have spent the best part of their lives navigatin’ ships, it do seem—­well, we’ll call it unmanly somehow.”

“That makes it all the worse,” growled Palmerston, sticking both hands in his pockets and forcing himself to meet her stare, against which he nodded sullenly.  “A man has to lift himself somehow—­when he wants something, very bad.”

“What is it you want?” asked Fancy.

“You know what it is, right enough.”  He glowered at her hardily, being desperate now and beyond shame.

“Do ’I?” But she blenched, meeting his eyes as be continued to nod.

“Yes, you do,” persisted he.  “I wants to marry ye, one of these days; and you can’t round on me, either, for outin’ with it; for ’twas your own suggestion.”

“Oh, you silly boy!” Fancy reproved him, while conscious of a highly delicious thrill and an equally delicious fear. ("O, youth, youth! and the wonder of first love!”) She cast about for escape, and forced a laugh.  “Do you know, you’re the very first as has ever proposed to me.”

“I was thinkin’ as much,” said the unflattering Palmerston.  “Come to that, you was the first as ever offered marriage to me.”

“But I didn’t!  I mean,” urged Fancy, “it was only in joke.”

“Joke or not,” said Palmerston, “you can’t deny it.”  Suddenly weakening, he let slip his advantage.  “But I wouldn’ wish to marry one that despised me,” he declared.  “I had enough o’ bein’ despised—­in the Workhouse.”

“I never said I despised you, Pammy,” Fancy protested.

“Yes, you did; or in so many words—­’Unmanly,’ you said.”

“But that was about writing.”  She opened her eyes wide.  “You don’t mean to tell me that’s the trouble? . . .  What have you been writing?”

“A book,” owned Palmerston with gloom.  “A man must try to raise himself somehow.”

“Of course he must.  What sort of book?”

“It’s—­it’s only a story.”

“Why,” she reassured him, “I heard of a man the other day who wrote a story and made A Thousand Pounds.  It was quite unexpected, and surprised even his friends.”

“It must be the same man Mrs Bowldler told me about.  His name was Walter Scott, and he called it ‘Waverley’ without signing his name to it, because he was a Sheriff; and there was another man that wrote a book called ‘Picnic’ by Boss, and made pounds.  So I’ve called mine ‘Pickerley,’ by way of drawing attention,—­but, of course, if you think there’s no chance, I suppose there isn’t,” wound up Palmerston, with a sudden access of despondency.

“Oh, Palmerston,” exclaimed Fancy, clasping her hands, “if it should only turn out that you’re a genius!”

“It would be a bit of all right,” he agreed, his cheerfulness reviving.