"You don't know what a treat it is to me to have an old shipmate with
me once more, George," he said. "My little Rosy and I live here pretty
comfortably, though I keep a tight hand over her, I can tell you," he
added, with pretended severity; "but it's dull work for a man who has
lived the best part of his life on the sea to find himself amongst a
pack of spooney landsmen. Never you marry a landsman, Rosy, if you
don't want me to cut you off with a shilling," he cried, turning to his
daughter.
Of course Miss Rosamond Duncombe blushed on hearing herself thus
apostrophized, as young ladies of eighteen have a knack of blushing
when the possibility of their falling in love is mentioned.
George Jernam saw the blush, and thought that Miss Duncombe was the
prettiest girl he had ever seen.
George Jernam stayed late at the cottage, for its hospitable owner was
loth to let his friend depart.
"How long do you stay in London, George?" he asked, as the young man
was going away.
"A month, at least--perhaps two months."
"Then be sure you come down here very often. You can dine with us every
Sunday, of course, for I know you haven't a creature belonging to you
in London except Harker; and you can run down of an evening sometimes,
and bring him with you, and smoke your cigar in my garden, with the
bright water rippling past you, and all the ships in the Pool spreading
their rigging against the calm grey sky; and I'll brew you a jorum of
punch, and Rosy shall sing us a song while we drink it.
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