“Well, he will have you to look after him.” He made a deprecatory gesture, sat down, and took up a paper. I did the same. The papers were old and uninteresting, filled up mostly with dreary stereotyped descriptions of Queen Victoria’s first jubilee celebrations. Probably we should have quickly fallen into a tropical afternoon doze if it had not been for Hamilton’s voice raised in the dining room. He was finishing his tiffin there. The big double doors stood wide open permanently, and he could not have had any idea how near to the doorway our chairs were placed. He was heard in a loud, supercilious tone answering some statement ventured by the Chief Steward.

“I am not going to be rushed into anything. They will be glad enough to get a gentleman I imagine. There is no hurry.”

A loud whispering from the Steward succeeded and then again Hamilton was heard with even intenser scorn.

“What? That young ass who fancies himself for having been chief mate with Kent so long?⁠ ⁠… Preposterous.”