“Look at our shadows!” cried Dick, taking off his broad-brimmed straw hat and waving it. 

 Emmeline held up her doll to see its shadow, and Mr Button held up his pipe. 

 “Come now,” said he, putting the pipe back in his mouth, and making to rise, “and shadda off to bed; it’s time you were aslape, the both of you.” 

 Dick began to yowl. 

 “I don’t want to go to bed; I aint tired, Paddy—les’s stay a little longer.” 

 “Not a minit,” said the other, with all the decision of a nurse; “not a minit afther me pipe’s out!” 

 “Fill it again,” said Dick. 

 Mr Button made no reply. The pipe gurgled as he puffed at it—a kind of death-rattle speaking of almost immediate extinction. 

 “Mr Button!” said Emmeline. She was holding her nose in the air and sniffing; seated to windward of the smoker, and out of the pigtail-poisoned air, her delicate sense of smell perceived something lost to the others. 

 “What is it, acushla?” 

 “I smell something.” 

 “What d’ye say you smell?” 

 “Something nice.” 

 “What’s it like?” asked Dick, sniffing hard. “I don’t smell anything.” 

 Emmeline sniffed again to make sure. 

 “Flowers,” said she. 

 The breeze, which had shifted several points since midday, was bearing with it a faint, faint odour: a perfume of vanilla and spice so faint as to be imperceptible to all but the most acute olfactory sense. 

 “Flowers!” said the old sailor, tapping the ashes out of his pipe against the heel of his boot. “And where’d you get flowers in middle of the say? It’s dhramin’ you are. Come now—to bed wid yiz!” 

 “Fill it again,” wailed Dick, referring to the pipe. 

 “It’s a spankin’ I’ll 

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