“Thank you,” said Rosa, and leaned on him heavily. “Housework is the proper thing for girls,” she continued, with some severity. “Every girl ought to know how to keep her husband’s house clean and cook nicely for him. But there—all they think about is love. What did you say?” “Nothing,” said Mr. Walters, hastily. “I didn’t say a word.” “I don’t understand it myself,” said Rosa, taking an appraising glance at him from under the brim of her hat; “I can’t think why people want to get married when they’re comfortable.” “Me neither,” said the boatswain. “Being friends is all right,” said Rosa, meditatively, “but falling in love and getting married always seemed absurd to me.” “Me too,” said Mr. Walters, heartily. With a mind suddenly at ease he gave himself over to calm enjoyment of the situation. He sniffed approvingly at the eau-de-Cologne, and leaned heavily toward the feather. Apparently without either of them knowing it, his arm began to afford support to Miss Jelks’s waist. They walked on for a long time in silence. “Some men haven’t got your sense,” said Rosa, at last, with a sigh. “There’s a young fellow that brings the milk—nice young fellow I thought he was—and all because I’ve had a word with him now and again, he tried to make love to me.” “Oh, did he?” said Mr. Walters, grimly. “What’s his name?” “It don’t matter,” said Rosa. “I don’t think he’ll try it again.” “Still, I might as well learn ’im a lesson,” said the boatswain. “I like a bit of a scrap.” “If you are going to fight everybody that tries to take notice of me you’ll have your work cut out,” said Miss Jelks, in tones of melancholy resignation, “and I’m sure it’s not because I give them any encouragement. And as for the number that ask me to walk out with them—well, there!” Mr. Walters showed his sympathy with such a state of affairs by a pressure that nearly took her breath away. They sat for an hour and a half on a bench by the river discussing the foolishness of young men. “If any of them chaps trouble you again,” he said, as they shook hands at the gate of Laurel Lodge, “you let me know. Do you have Sunday evening out too?” CHAPTER XI “I HAVE been knocking for the last ten minutes,” said Hartley, as he stood one evening at the open door of No. 5, Tranquil Vale, and looked up at Captain Trimblett. “I was in the summer-house,” said the captain, standing aside to let him enter. “Alone?” queried the visitor. “Alone? Yes, of course,” said the captain, sharply. “Why shouldn’t I be? Peter’s courting—as usual.” “And Mrs. Chinnery?” inquired the other. “She’s away for a day or two,” replied the captain; “friends at Marsham.” He stopped in the small kitchen to get some beer and glasses, and, with the bottle gripped under his arm and a glass in each hand, led the way to the summer-house. “I came to ask your advice,” said Hartley, as he slowly filled his pipe from the pouch the captain pushed toward him.