"Of course she would. The artist was never past Gravesend, I swear. It's the Penelope as she was on the 14th of June, 1857, in the throat of the Straits of Banca, with the Island of Banca on the starboard bow, and Sumatra on the port. He painted it from description, but of course, as you very sensibly say, all was snug below and she carried storm sails and double-reefed topsails, for it was blowing a cyclone from the sou'east. I compliment you, ma'am, I do indeed!" "Oh, I have done a little sailoring myself--as much as a woman can aspire to, you know. This is the Bay of Funchal. What a lovely frigate!" "Lovely, you say! Ah, she was lovely! That is the Andromeda. I was a mate aboard of her--sub-lieutenant they call it now, though I like the old name best." "What a lovely rake her masts have, and what a curve to her bows! She must have been a clipper." The old sailor rubbed his hands and his eyes glistened. His old ships bordered close upon his wife and his son in his affections. "I know Funchal," said the lady carelessly. "A couple of years ago I had a seven-ton cutter-rigged yacht, the Banshee, and we ran over to Madeira from Falmouth." "You ma'am, in a seven-tonner?" "With a couple of Cornish lads for a crew. Oh, it was glorious! A fortnight right out in the open, with no worries, no letters, no callers, no petty thoughts, nothing but the grand works of God, the tossing sea and the great silent sky. They talk of riding, indeed, I am fond of horses, too, but what is there to compare with the swoop of a little craft as she pitches down the long steep side of a wave, and then the quiver and spring as she is tossed upwards again? Oh, if our souls could transmigrate I'd be a seamew above all birds that fly! But I keep you, Admiral. Adieu!" The old sailor was too transported with sympathy to say a word. He could only shake her broad muscular hand. She was half-way down the garden path before she heard him calling her, and saw his grizzled head and weather-stained face looking out from behind the curtains. "You may put me down for the platform," he cried, and vanished abashed behind the curtain of his Times, where his wife found him at lunch time. "I hear that you have had quite a long chat with Mrs. Westmacott," said she. "Yes, and I think that she is one of the most sensible women that I ever knew." "Except on the woman's rights question, of course." "Oh, I don't know. She had a good deal to say for herself on that also. In fact, mother, I have taken a platform ticket for her meeting." CHAPTER VI. AN OLD STORY.