let it untimely die, or something of the sort.  But afterwards he shouted, ’I shouldn’t wonder if she’s the Maryland;’ and then I understood, and it struck me that it would be so nice to come to you and pay the ‘duty,’ or whatever you call it, on the tea, and at the same time, if you were very good, you would take me over the ship with you, and show me how you did your work.  It’s very complicated, I daresay:  but I’ll be quiet as a mouse, and won’t interrupt you at all.”

She paused for breath.  The Collector smiled, and handed back the invoice.

“It seems all right,” he said.  “Let us hurry to the Custom House.  An hour in your company, Geraldine, will transfigure even the dull round of duty.”

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys smiled back divinely.  She thought it extremely probable.

A few minutes later the poet sat by Geraldine’s side—­sweet proximity!—­in the stern of one of Her Majesty’s boats, while two “minions,” as he was wont in verse to term his subordinates, rowed them towards a shapely barque that had just dropped anchor not far from the Bower Slip.

She flew a yellow flag in sign that she hailed from a foreign port, and as the Customs’ boat dropped under her quarter Mr. Moggridge shouted—­

“Maryland, ahoy!”

“Ahoy!” answered a gruff voice, and a red face looked over the side.

“Captain?” inquired Mr. Moggridge.

“That’s me—­Uriah T. Potter, Cap’n.  Customs, I guess,” said the red-faced man, with a slow look at Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

“Clean bill of health?”

“Waal, two fo’c’s’le hands down with whoopin’-cough:  take it you won’t keep us in quarantine for that.”

The Collector helped Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys up the ship’s side.  As she alighted on deck a swift glance passed between her and the red-faced man.  Quite casually she laid two fingers on her chin.  Uriah T. Potter did the same; but Mr. Moggridge was giving some instructions to his minions at the moment, and did not notice it.

“Anything to declare?” he asked.

“Mainly corn aboard, an’ tinned fruits for Port o’ London.  Reas’nable deal o’ tea an’ ’baccy, though, for you to seal—­shipped for same place.  By the way, chest o’ tea for party living hereabouts—­Goodwyn-Sandys, friend of owner—­guess that’s the reason for putting in at this one-hoss place,” wound up Uriah T. Potter, with a depreciatory glance at the beauties of Troy.

“This is Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys,” said the Collector.

“Proud to make your ’cquaintance, marm.”  The Captain held out his hand to the lady, who shook it affably.

“Let’s see the cargo,” said Mr. Moggridge.

The Captain led the way and they descended; Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys full of pretty wonder at the arrangements of the ship, and slipping her fingers timidly into the Collector’s hand on the dark companion stairs.  He seized and raised them to his lips.