would have been more regular--less shocking to the respectable
class to which he belongs."

He was not so stupid as to miss my intention, and shrugged his
shoulders impatiently.

"You don't understand. To begin with, she's not a mulatto. And a
scandal is a scandal. People should be given a chance to forget.
I dare say it would have been better for her if she had been turned
into a scullion or something of that kind. Of course he's trying
to make money in every sort of petty way, but in such a business
there'll never be enough for anybody to come forward."

When my friend left me I had a conception of Jacobus and his
daughter existing, a lonely pair of castaways, on a desert island;
the girl sheltering in the house as if it were a cavern in a cliff,
and Jacobus going out to pick up a living for both on the beach--
exactly like two shipwrecked people who always hope for some
rescuer to bring them back at last into touch with the rest of
mankind.

But Jacobus's bodily reality did not fit in with this romantic
view. When he turned up on board in the usual course, he sipped
the cup of coffee placidly, asked me if I was satisfied--and I
hardly listened to the harbour gossip he dropped slowly in his low,
voice-saving enunciation. I had then troubles of my own. My ship
chartered, my thoughts dwelling on the success of a quick round
voyage, I had been suddenly confronted by a shortage of bags. A
catastrophe! The stock of one especial kind, called pockets,
seemed to be totally exhausted. A consignment was shortly