Marion Dearsley and her aunt, Mrs. Walton, understood each
other: the matron pretended to laugh at her niece's gravity, but the
genuine relation between the pair was that of profound mutual confidence
and fondness.
The soft gleam of the lamps showed a very pleasant group in the roomy,
comfortable saloon. A stout, black-bearded man lounged carelessly on a
sofa, supporting himself with one huge hand as the vessel kicked
awkwardly. He looked as if he had been born with a smile, and every line
of his great face was disposed so as to express vast contentment and
good-humour. You could not call him finely bred, but when he observed,
in terrific bass tones, "Hah! Miss Dearsley, you have gazed on the
what's-his-name; you love the storm; you find it fahscinating--oh!
fahscinating; ah! fahscinating! I like an ignoble cabin and a pipe, but
the what's-his-name is fahscinating--ah! fahscinating." His infectious
good-humour was better than any graces. Then his pride in his phrases
was very fine to behold, and he regarded his repetition of his sonorous
adjective as quite an original thing in the way of pure rhetoric. Tom
Lennard was by inheritance a merchant, by choice a philanthropist; he
was naturally religious, but he could not help regarding his
philanthropic work as a great frolic, and he often scandalized reformers
of a more serious disposition. The excellent Joseph Naylor, who was
never seen to smile, and who was popularly supposed to sleep in his
black frock-coat and high stock, once met Tom on a platform.
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