Courtenay waxed sarcastic anent the rig of Claude's ships;
he was laughing at the careless grace with which several of the Baozan
maidens were standing in a boat just putting off from a wharf, when a
lady cried sharply:
"George, how careless of you! You are sitting on my mahl-stick."
"Sorry, my dear," said a tall thin man, rising from a camp-stool.
"Good gracious, it's Mr. Tollemache," whispered Elsie.
"Gad, so it is. Let's hail him."
Tollemache's solemn face brightened when he heard the hail. He
introduced his wife, an eminently artistic being who answered to the
name of Jennie. She at once enlisted Elsie in an argument as to
atmospheres, but Tollemache drew Courtenay aside.
"Got married when I reached home that trip," he explained. "The wife
comes here every Thursday, an' I have to carry the kit. Rather rot,
isn't it?"
"It is certainly a change from stoking the donkey-boiler, and bowling
over Alaculofs like nine-pius."
"That's what I tell her, but she says the Indians were Boeotian, and
the landscape, as I describe it, had the crude coloring of the Newlyn
school, which she abominates.
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