“Call this sea?” he mocked.

It was sea to her, who had never been beyond the Heads.  She expected to concentrate in the fifteen-minutes’ trip across the bay the interest of years of travel on land.  There was nothing like blue water to this sailor’s wife, whose heart had been upon it for so many anxious months; the extravagance of her partiality was the joke of husband and friends against her.

“All right,” said Guthrie; “come along, then!”

He was impatient to get her away from these people, and under his own roof.

The second-hand macintosh was again pressed upon her.

“Oh, thanks—­thanks!  But I think I won’t put it on just yet, as it is not raining.  My dress is warm.”

Her dress was the wedding dress—­chosen for use as well as beauty—­a delicate pink stuff, with a watered sash to match, in which she looked like a school-girl on breaking-up day.  She had a fancy to go to her home in state, and also to make an appearance that would do her husband credit before Mr and Mrs Hardacre.

“Here is your fascinator, my dear,” said the motherly landlady, offering the wisely-selected substitute for Lily’s hat.  “Let me tie it on for you—­there!”

The fascinator of white wool, made and adjusted properly, accounts for its name; and Guthrie was sure that he had never seen a lovelier picture than his darling’s face in that soft frame.  She was ready now—­as ready as she meant to be until the Customs launch had seen her—­and turned to pick up the large bundle that had the little baby in the middle of it.

“I’ll carry him, Lily.”

“No, no, Mr Carey, I’m going to carry him,” said the landlady’s cousin, a strapping young woman, whose arms were equal to the task—­“as far as the boat, at any rate.”

She did so, the elder ladies supporting her on either side.  Guthrie and Lily led the procession, hand in hand.

Ah, how like another world it was, coming out upon that breezy platform from the gutter-smelling streets!  And how royal a proceeding it seemed to Lily to be, the setting apart of a Government vessel solely and entirely to convey her to her new abode, as if she were a little queen going to her husband’s kingdom.  She could not help holding herself with dignity, if not with a trifle of vaingloriousness, as, between half-a-dozen eager hands and admiring eyes, she stepped down into it.

“Now, have you got everything?” the landlady called from the pier.  “Oh, everything—­everything in the world!” Guthrie shouted, in reply.

“Where’s your waterproof, Lily?” screeched the step-mother.  “Better put it on, my dear; and I’d advise you to sit under cover, both of you.  You’ll be drenched if you don’t, in this wind.  Why, Mr Hardacre, it’s blowing a perfect gale!”

“A bit fresh, ma’am,” Bill admitted; “just enough to keep us lively.  All aboard, Mr Casey?  Pass the word, sir, when you’re ready.”