“I think she informed me that her selection of a husband for you was a damned sight better than mine—I beg your pardon, my dear, she didn’t say ‘damned’—and then the little girl you’re always talking of came in, and the rabbit-skinner seemed to turn into an ordinary sort of woman and took me up, and, in a way, threw me down on the floor to play with the child.” “What did you play at, dad? When I was little you used to pretend to swallow a fork. Did you swallow a fork?” The iron features relaxed into a smile. “I did, my dear, and it was the cold pie fork, wiped on a bit of newspaper. And last of all, what do you think she said?” “No one on earth could guess, dear, what Clementina might have said.” “She actually asked me to sit for a crayon sketch. Said my face was interesting to her as an artist, and she would like to make a study of it for her own pleasure. Now what pleasure could anybody on earth find in looking at my ugly old mug?” “But, dear, you have a most beautiful mug,” cried Etta. “I don’t mean beautiful like the photographs of popular actors—but full of strength and character—just the fine face that appeals to the artist.” “Do you think so?” asked the Admiral. “I’m sure.” She ran to a little table and brought a Florentine mirror. “Look.” He looked. Instinctively the man of sixty-five touched the finely-curving grizzled hair about his temples. “You’re a silly child,” said he. She kissed him. “Now confess. You had the goodest of good times with Clementina this afternoon.” “I don’t mind owning,” said the Admiral, “that I found her a most intelligent woman.” And that is the way that all of us sons of Adam, even Admirals of the British Fleet, can be beguiled by the daughters of Eve.