“Let us waive the point.” (Sir Joseph invariably used this formula as a means of at once conciliating his sister, and getting a fresh start for his story.) “I was cruising off the Mersey in a Liverpool pilot-boat. I had hired the boat in company with a friend of mine, formerly notorious in London society, under the nickname (derived from the peculiar brown color of his whiskers) of ‘Mahogany Dobbs.’”      

       “The color of his liveries, Joseph, not the color of his whiskers.”      

       “My dear Lavinia, you are thinking of ‘Sea-green Shaw,’ so called from the extraordinary liveries he adopted for his servants in the year when he was sheriff.”      

       “I think not, Joseph.”      

       “I beg your pardon, Lavinia.”      

       Richard Turlington’s knotty fingers drummed impatiently on the table. He looked toward Natalie. She was idly arranging her little morsels of ham in a pattern on her plate. Launcelot Linzie, still more idly, was looking at the pattern. Seeing what he saw now, Richard solved the problem which had puzzled him on deck. It was simply impossible that Natalie’s fancy could be really taken by such an empty-headed fool as that!     

       Sir Joseph went on with his story:     

       “We were some ten or a dozen miles off the mouth of the Mersey—”      

       “Nautical miles, Joseph.”      

       “It doesn’t matter, Lavinia.”      

       “Excuse me, brother, the late great and good Doctor Johnson said accuracy ought always to be studied even in the most trifling things.”      

       “They were common miles, Lavinia.”      

       “They were nautical miles, Joseph.”      

       “Let us waive the point. Mahogany Dobbs and I happened to be below in the cabin, occupied—”      

       Here Sir Joseph paused (with his amiable smile) to consult his memory. Miss Lavinia waited (with her amiable smile) for the coming   

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