His shock hair--red turning to grey--stood up four inches from his
honest, wrinkled face. It was unfortunate that his best garments
should have been purchased for the amenities of a northern climate.
His trousers were as stiff as his jacket, and he wore a decorous
black silk tie as large as a counterpane.

He stood quaintly bowing in the doorway, his bright blue eyes veiled
with shyness and a pathetic dumb self-consciousness.

"Please come in," said Eve in Spanish, quite at a loss as to who
this might be.

Then Fitz had an inspiration. Something of the sea seemed to be
wafted from the older to the younger sailor.

"Are you Captain Bontnor?" he asked, rising from the table.

"Yes, sir, yes! That's my name!"

He stood nervously in the doorway, mistrusting the parquet-floor,
mistrusting himself, mistrusting everything.

Fitz went towards him holding out his hand, which the captain took
after a manfully repressed desire to wipe his own broad palm on the
seam of his trousers.

"Then you are my uncle?" said Eve, coming forward.

"Yes, miss, I'm afraid--that is--yes, I'm your uncle. You see--I'm
only a rough sort of fellow."