The first sight she saw when she opened the door was a sailorman standing there under the verandah, and smiling at her with a shiny, good-natured face. He was rigged out in best shore-going clothes--tarpaulin hat, blue coat and waistcoat, and duck trousers, with a broad waist-belt of leather. Behind him stood another sailorman, older and more gloomy looking; and behind the pair of them Susannah's eye ranged over half a dozen seedy tide-waiters and longshoremen, all very bashful-looking, and crowded among a bevy of damsels of the sort that you might best describe as painted hussies. "Good afternoon, ma'am," said the sailorman, with a pacifying sort of smile. "Good afternoon," said Susannah, catching her breath. "But, all the same, this isn't Babylon." "You serve teas here, ma'am?" "No, we don't," answers Susannah, very sturdy. "Then the board hav' made a mistake," said the sailor, scratching the back of his head and pushing his tarpaulin hat forward and sideways over his eyebrows. "It _said_ that you was patronised by the naval and military, and that teas was provided." "But we're a respectable house," said Susannah. The sailorman gazed at her, long and earnest, and turned to his mate. "Good Lord, Bill!" said he, "what a dreadful mistake!" "Ho!" said one of the ladies, tossing her chin. "Ho, I see what it is! The likes of us ain't good enough for the likes of her!" "Not by a long chalk, ma'am," agreed Susannah, her temper rising. "It's this way, ma'am," put in the sailorman very peaceable-like. "My name's Ben Jope, of the _Vesuvius_ bomb, and this here's my mate Bill Adams. We was paid off this morning at half-past nine, and picked up a few hasty friends ashore for a Feet-Sham-Peter. But o' course if this here is a respectable house there's no more to be said--except that maybe you'll be good enough to recommend us to one that isn't." The poor fellow meant it well, but somehow or other his words so annoyed Susannah that she bounced in and slammed the door in his face. He stood for a while staring at it, and then turned and led the way down the steps again to the quay, walking like a man in a dream, and not seeming to hear the ladies--though one or two were telling him that he hadn't the pluck of a louse: and down at the quay the company came upon Master Nandy, dandering towards them with his hands in his pockets. "Hullo!" said Nandy. "Hullo to _you!_" said Mr. Jope. "Turned you out?" asked Nandy. Mr. Jope glanced back at the roof of Merry-Garden, which from the quay could be seen just overtopping the laylocks. "She's a sperrited woman," he said; and after that there was a pause until Nandy asked him who he thought he was staring at. "I dunno," said Mr. Jope. "You puts me in mind of a boy I knew, one time. I stood godfather to him, and he grew up to be afflicted in much the same manner." "I've been unwell," said Nandy, "and I haven't got over the effects of it."