"You are right, Mademoiselle. Indeed, it is quite wonderful to meet a
woman of your discernment. Yes, you are right. My wife called me a rogue
and a scoundrel--mind you, I am not saying she was mistaken--but my
temper was hotter then than it is now. I have done my best to convince
her she was not in error. And now, Mademoiselle, it has become as much of
a habit with me as strong drink, a habit which even you cannot break. I
have been a villain too long to leave off lightly. No, Mademoiselle, I
have the paper, and I intend to dispose of it as I see fit. Your mother,
my son, need have had no cause for regret. She was right in everything
she said. Brutus, tell Mr. Aiken I am ready to see him."

He must have been in the hall outside, for he entered the morning room
almost as soon as my father had spoken, dressed in his rusty black sea
cloak. At the sight of Mademoiselle, he bowed ceremoniously, and blew
loudly on his fingers.

"Wind's shifted southwest," he said. "But we're ready to put out."

"Sit down, Mr. Aiken," said my father. "My son, pour him a little
refreshment."

"Ah," said Mr. Aiken, selecting a chair by the fire, "pour it out, my
lad--fill her up. It's a short life and little joy 'less we draw it from
the bottle. And long life and much joy to you, sir, by the same token,"
he added, raising his glass and tossing the spirits adroitly down his
throat. Then, with a comfortable sigh, he drew out his pipe and lighted
it on an ember.

"Yes, she'll be blowing before morning."