Part 17

“And what did he say?”

“He only looked innocent—as if he thought I meant a fog or a storm.”

“Heaven forbid—it isn’t that! I shall never be good-natured again,” Mrs. Nettlepoint went on; “never have a girl put on me that way. You always pay for it—there are always tiresome complications. What I’m afraid of is after we get there. She’ll throw up her engagement; there will be dreadful scenes; I shall be mixed up with them and have to look after her and keep her with me. I shall have to stay there with her till she can be sent back, or even take her up to London. Do you see all that?”

I listened respectfully; after which I observed: “You’re afraid of your son.”

She also had a pause. “It depends on how you mean it.”

“There are things you might say to him—and with your manner; because you have one, you know, when you choose.”

“Very likely, but what’s my manner to his? Besides, I have said everything to him. That is I’ve said the great thing—that he’s making her immensely talked about.”

“And of course in answer to that he has asked you how you know, and you’ve told him you have it from me.”

“I’ve had to tell him; and he says it’s none of your business.”

“I wish he’d say that,” I remarked, “to my face.”

“He’ll do so perfectly if you give him a chance. That’s where you can help me. Quarrel with him—he’s rather good at a quarrel; and that will divert him and draw him off.”

“Then I’m ready,” I returned, “to discuss the matter with him for the rest of the voyage.”

“Very well; I count on you. But he’ll ask you, as he asks me, what the deuce you want him to do.”

“To go to bed!”—and I’m afraid I laughed.

“Oh it isn’t a joke.”

I didn’t want to be irritating, but I made my point. “That’s exactly what I told you at first.”

“Yes, but don’t exult; I hate people who exult. Jasper asks of me,” she went on, “why he should mind her being talked about if she doesn’t mind it herself.”

“I’ll tell him why,” I replied; and Mrs. Nettlepoint said she should be exceedingly obliged to me and repeated that she would indeed take the field.

I looked for Jasper above that same evening, but circumstances didn’t favour my quest. I found him—that is I gathered he was again ensconced behind the lifeboat with Miss Mavis; but there was a needless violence in breaking into their communion, and I put off our interview till the next day. Then I took the first opportunity, at breakfast, to make sure of it. He was in the saloon when I went in and was preparing to leave the table; but I stopped him and asked if he would give me a quarter of an hour on deck a little later—there was something particular I wanted to say to him. He said “Oh yes, if you like”—with just a visible surprise, but I thought with plenty of assurance. When I had finished my breakfast I found him smoking on the forward-deck and I immediately began: “I’m going to say something you won’t at all like; to ask you a question you’ll probably denounce for impertinent.”

“I certainly shall if I find it so,” said Jasper Nettlepoint.

“Well, of course my warning has meant that I don’t care if you do. I’m a good deal older than you and I’m a friend—of many years—of your mother. There’s nothing I like less than to be meddlesome, but I think these things give me a certain right—a sort of privilege. Besides which my inquiry will speak for itself.”

“Why so many damned preliminaries?” my young man asked through his smoke.

We looked into each other’s eyes a moment. What indeed was his mother’s manner—her best manner—compared with his? “Are you prepared to be responsible?”

“To you?”

“Dear no—to the young lady herself. I’m speaking of course of Miss Mavis.”

“Ah yes, my mother tells me you have her greatly on your mind.”

“So has your mother herself—now.”

“She’s so good as to say so—to oblige you.”