may make the most of that song,” says Miss Denison grimly; “it’s the last they’ll have from me. Get up as many more concerts as you like. I won’t sing at another unless it’s in the fo’c’sle. I’ll sing to the men, but not to Captain Harris. He didn’t put in an appearance tonight. He shall not have another chance of insulting me.”
Was it her vanity that was wounded after all? “You forget,” said I, “that you would not answer when he addressed you at dinner.”
“I should think I wouldn’t, after the
of course, one’s own faults; and I confess that I was very critical of Eva Denison’s criticisms. Then she had a little weakness for exaggeration, for unconscious egotism in conversation, and I itched to tell her so. I felt so certain that the girl had a fine character underneath, which would rise to