“The Governor’s got a devil of a lot of letters,” said Stukeley. “There goes his secretary to him.” “Yes.” “Well, I pity the man who tries it,” Stukeley muttered, thinking of an arrest. “Is this a very good harbour for ships?” Olivia asked. “Yes; very good,” said Margaret. “Don’t you love to imagine the river here full of ships, the biggest and most beautiful kinds of ships? And then the banks here, and yonder, with a city. A city, built of marble. Marble cathedrals. And a great citadel on the hill there.” “A great naval power is always on the brink of ruin,” said Perrin. “Athens was a great naval power, and had her navy smashed by a power without a navy. Carthage the same. Spain was greatest at the eighty-eight. There’s another instance.” “Naval power is a very fine thing,” said Margaret. “You’re mixing up greatness, and the weakness which comes of overweening pride, or the defect of greatness.” “That’s what you silly Celts are always doing,” said Stukeley. At this moment the orderly reappeared, saluting. “Beg pardon, sirs,” he said, “but which of you gents is Captain Margaret?” “I am.” “’Is lordship’s compliments, sir; ’n’ will you step this way?” Margaret glanced at the faces of his friends. Stukeley sat down, nursing the sword, looking at the doorway and at the window. Perrin, who sincerely hoped he was about to see the end of Stukeley, enjoyed a mental vision of the Ephesian matron. His day-dream was of Olivia in black, in a darkened London room, and of himself, the comforter, come to console her, with platitude in low tone, sentiment speaking grief’s language. Olivia turned to the spinet. She tried one or two notes with her finger, making little wry mouths at the want of tune. “Is there any Virginian music, Edward?” she asked. “I heard some negroes singing in the tobacco fields the other day. It sounded very sweet. It came home to one strangely. All working songs come home to one, don’t you think?” “Yes,” said Perrin. “They are so simple. They’re like a simple person speaking passionately. They leave the intellect untouched, of course.” “Yes. But you and Charles are always blaming poultry, shall we say, for not being golden eagles. Poultry as poultry are very good. Don’t you think so? Won’t you sit down, Edward? This is the song the negroes sang. I think it’s so charming.” While she touched the tune upon the spinet, Margaret stood in the presence of Howard, the Governor, a heavy-looking, weary-looking man with dark moustaches. His voice was hard and grating, an official voice. It jarred on Margaret, who expected bad news from it. “Sit down, Margaret,” he said, picking up a letter. “I hope you’re well.” “Thanks. Yes. You wanted to see me?” “Do you know that I could lodge you all in prison?” “So you’ve heard, then?” “Read this letter.”