“I daresay he thinks so—­or will before the end.  Ah no—­ah no!” And I asked Mrs. Nettlepoint if our young lady struck her as, very grossly, a flirt.  She gave me no answer, but went on to remark that she found it odd and interesting to see the way a girl like Grace Mavis resembled the girls of the kind she herself knew better, the girls of “society,” at the same time that she differed from them; and the way the differences and resemblances were so mixed up that on certain questions you couldn’t tell where you’d find her.  You’d think she’d feel as you did because you had found her feeling so, and then suddenly, in regard to some other matter—­which was yet quite the same—­she’d be utterly wanting.  Mrs. Nettlepoint proceeded to observe—­to such idle speculations does the vacancy of sea-hours give encouragement—­that she wondered whether it were better to be an ordinary girl very well brought up or an extraordinary girl not brought up at all.

“Oh I go in for the extraordinary girl under all circumstances.”

“It’s true that if you’re very well brought up you’re not, you can’t be, ordinary,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint, smelling her strong salts.  “You’re a lady, at any rate.”

“And Miss Mavis is fifty miles out—­is that what you mean?”

“Well—­you’ve seen her mother.”

“Yes, but I think your contention would be that among such people the mother doesn’t count.”

“Precisely, and that’s bad.”

“I see what you mean.  But isn’t it rather hard?  If your mother doesn’t know anything it’s better you should be independent of her, and yet if you are that constitutes a bad note.”  I added that Mrs. Mavis had appeared to count sufficiently two nights before.  She had said and done everything she wanted, while the girl sat silent and respectful.  Grace’s attitude, so far as her parent was concerned, had been eminently decent.

“Yes, but she ‘squirmed’ for her,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint.

“Ah if you know it I may confess she has told me as much.”

My friend stared.  “Told you?  There’s one of the things they do!”

“Well, it was only a word.  Won’t you let me know whether you do think her a flirt?”

“Try her yourself—­that’s better than asking another woman; especially as you pretend to study folk.”

“Oh your judgement wouldn’t probably at all determine mine.  It’s as bearing on you I ask it.”  Which, however, demanded explanation, so that I was duly frank; confessing myself curious as to how far maternal immorality would go.

It made her at first but repeat my words.  “Maternal immorality?”

“You desire your son to have every possible distraction on his voyage, and if you can make up your mind in the sense I refer to that will make it all right.  He’ll have no responsibility.”

“Heavens, how you analyse!” she cried.  “I haven’t in the least your passion for making up my mind.”