The Grey Lady | Page 9

lady, who has large
estates there--a Mrs. Harrington."
"The Honourable Mrs. Harrington is a sort of relation of my niece's,
Miss Challoner. I call her Miss Challoner, although she is my niece,
because she is above me."
His lordship glanced at the ceiling again.
"I mean she is a lady. And I'm going to Majorca to fetch her. At least,
I'm trying to get there, but I cannot somehow find out about the boat.
They're a bit irregular, it seems, and this stupid jabbering of theirs does
flurry me so. Now, what's this? Eh? Pudding, is it? Well, it doesn't look
like it. No, thank ye!"

The poor old man was soon upset by insignificant trifles, and after he
had given way to a little burst of petulance like this, he had a strange,
half pathetic way of staring straight in front of him for a few seconds,
as if collecting himself again.
It happened that Lord Seahampton was a good-natured young man,
with rather a soft heart, such as many horsey persons possess.
Something in Captain Bontnor touched him; some simple British
quality which he was pleased to meet with, thus, in a foreign land.
"Look here," he said, "I'll go out with you afterwards and find out all
about the boat, take your ticket, and fix the whole thing up."
"I'm sure you're very kind," began the old sailor hesitatingly. He
fumbled at his necktie for a moment with unsteady, weather-beaten
hands. "But I shouldn't like to trespass on your time. I take it you're
here for pleasure?"
Lord Seahampton smiled.
"Yes, I'm here for pleasure; that's what I'm in the world for."
Still Captain Bontnor hesitated.
"You might meet some of your friends," he began tentatively, "in the
streets, you know." He paused and looked down at his own hands; he
turned one palm up, showing the faint tattoo on the wrist. "I'm only a
rough seafaring man," he went on. "They might think it strange--might
wonder whom you had picked up."
The spotless collar seemed to be very uncomfortable.
"I've always made a practice," mumbled Lord Seahampton, rather
incoherently, "of letting my friends think what they damned well please.
May I ask your name?"
"Bontnor's my name. Captain Bontnor, at your service."
"My name's Seahampton."
Captain Bontnor turned and looked at him.
"Yes, I'm Lord Seahampton."
"Oh!" ejaculated Captain Bontnor, under his breath. His social facilities
did not quite rise to an occasion like this.
"As soon as you've finished," went on his companion rather hurriedly,
"we'll go out and look up these steamer people. Miss Challoner will be
anxious for you to get there as soon as you can."
"Yes, yes!"
The captain laid aside his napkin and began to show signs of getting

flurried again.
"Her name is Eve," he said, in the hurried way which was rather
pathetic. "Now, I wonder what I should call her. Poor young thing! if
she's distressed about her father's death--which is only natural, I'm
sure--it would sound a bit chilly like to call her Miss Challoner. What
do you think, Mr.--eh--er--Lord--sir?"
"Well, I think I should call her Eve--it's a pretty name--and take her by
the hand, and--yes, I think I'd kiss her. Especially if she was a
nice-looking girl," he added for his own personal edification as he
preceded his companion into the hall.
He was fumbling in the tail pocket of his short tweed coat as he went.
In the hall he turned.
"Got anything to smoke?" he asked, in his most abrupt manner, as if the
cut of his collar did not allow of verbosity.
The old man shyly produced some cigars in a leather case, which had
never been of great value, even in the far-off days of its youth.
"I hardly like to offer them to you," he said slowly. "T--they're not
expensive, and I couldn't explain to the young woman what I wanted."
"Rather like the look of them," said Lord Seahampton, taking one and
cutting the end off with a certain show of eagerness. This young man's
reputation for personal bravery was a known quantity on the
hunting-field. "Old sailors," he continued, "generally know good
tobacco."
And all the while he had half-a-dozen of the best Havanas in his pocket.
Some instinct, which he was much too practical to define, and possibly
too stupid to detect, told him that this was one of those occasions where
it is much more blessed to receive than to give.
"And so," continued Captain Bontnor, as they were walking down the
shady side of that noisiest street in the world, the Rambla, "and so you
would just call her Eve, if you was me?"
"I should."
"Remember that she is a lady, you know. Quite a lady."
"I am remembering that," replied the peer stolidly; "that's