Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. Ramage seemed always fencing about the forbidden topic, probing for openings, and she wondered why she did not give him them.
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