“Is that a great crime at sea?” said Olivia. “It’s the old man’s perk,” said Mr. Iles. “B’gee. I was in a turtler once, off of the Grand Cays there. I done that once. I didn’t do it a second time. No, sir.” “What did they do to you?” said Olivia. “He give me der lid for me supper, lady.” “How old were you then?” said Perrin. “A young one,” said Iles. “My old pop was the old man in that ship.” “Your old----?” “My pop. The old one. My father.” “Tell us one of those stories you were spinning me this afternoon, Iles,” said Stukeley. “That one about the girl. You know. The girl. The girl who----” “Which girl?” said Mr. Iles. “I don’t know which girl you mean.” “The girl outside Paddy’s. Mr. Iles is a wonderful raconteur,” he explained. “He’s like an old sailor, you know. Excellent. He told me some this afternoon.” “What sort of stories do you tell?” Olivia asked. “Just amusing stories to pass the time, miss,” he answered. “Do you make them up yourself?” “Some of them I seen myself, miss,” he answered. “I don’t know who makes the others up. Some son of a---- Some gentleman’s son with nothing better to do. But b’gee, I don’t tink I could tell one of them kind here exactly.” “Why not?” asked Captain Margaret, looking at him coldly. “Why couldn’t you?” “I guess you know, all right, all right.” “I don’t frequent pothouses. So perhaps I don’t know.” “That’s where you sentimental prigs go wrong,” said Stukeley, flaring up. “It’d do you a sight of good if you did frequent pothouses. You meet better people in a pothouse than you do in one of your Chelsea twaddle-shops.” “I don’t understand you,” said Margaret calmly. “What is a Chelsea twaddle-shop, Olivia? You’ve stayed at Chelsea. What is it? A book-shop?” Olivia smiled. Captain Margaret was like her dead brother; he did not show temper even when people spoke to rouse him. She defined the offending shop. “It’s a name Tom gives to houses in Chelsea, like my aunt Pile’s house. Where the people talk a good deal of poetry and painting. Where you meet intellectual people.” “Don’t you like intellectual people, Stukeley?” “I don’t like prigs, and I don’t like blue-stockings, and I don’t like----” “People who care for beautiful things? Is that it?” “A lot of mewing old women who ought to be in a rook-shop.” “What’s a rook-shop?” said Olivia. “A monastery, my dear. A monk or nun house. Somewhere where they could mew and caw their silly hearts out. Beauty. Eh? Beauty. I’ve heard ’em talk about beauty. What do they know about beauty?” “There’s nothing in poetry and that,” said Mr. Iles, rallying to his patron. “What’s the good of it? It’s unpractical stuff. B’gee, der poets should come to sea. I’d show ’em what to write about.” “What would you show them?” said Perrin. “Show them?” said Mr. Iles. “I’d show them what a man is, for one thing.” “And what is a man?” said Margaret. “He ain’t an old woman, anyway,” said Mr. Iles.