In Which Is Certain Polite Conversation

She made no answer, but stood, a basilisk in mien.

"I just came, my dear Mrs. Daniver," I began, "to ask you----"

"And time you did, sir-r-r-r! I was just coming to ask you----"

"And time you did, my dear Mrs. Daniver--I have missed you so much,
these several days. So I just called to ask for your health."

"You need not trouble about my health!"

"But I do, I do, madam! I give you my word, I was awake all night,
thinking of--of your neuralgia. Neuralgia is something--something
fierce, in a manner of speech--if one has it in the morning, my dear
Mrs. Daniver."

"Don't 'dear Mrs. Daniver' me! I'm not your dear Mrs. Daniver at all."

"Then whose dear Mrs. Daniver are you, my dear Mrs. Daniver?" I
rejoined most impudently.

"If the poor dear Admiral were alive," said she, sniffing, "you should
repent those words!"

"I wish the poor dear Admiral were here," said I. "I should like to
ask an abler sailorman than Peterson what to do, with the glass
falling as it is, and the holding ground none too good for an anchor.
I thought it just as well to come and tell you to prepare for the
worst."

"The worst--what do you mean?" She now advanced three steps upward, so
that her shoulders were above the cabin door. Almost mechanically she
took my hand.

"The worst just now is nothing worse than an orange with ice, my dear
Mrs. Daniver. And I only wanted you to come out on deck with--Miss
Emory--and see how blue the sea is."