Chapter X: Looking Two Ways

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear
Too calm and sad a face in front of thine;
For we two look two ways, and cannot shine
With the same sunlight on our brow and hair.
On me thou lookest with no doubting care,
* * * * * * * * *
... But I look on thee--on thee--
Beholding, besides love, the end of love,
Hearing oblivion beyond memory;
As one who sits and gazes from above,
Over the rivers to the bitter sea."
E. B. BROWNING.

"On the 29th inst., at St. George's, Hanover Square, Ellis Farrant, only son of the late J. E. Farrant, Esq., and nephew of the late Thomas Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor, Mountshire, and Rippingham, Surrey, to Honora, widow of Colonel Ralph Farrant, R.A., and daughter of the late General Patrick Donovan. No cards."

Two old maiden ladies, who were spending their summer holiday at a watering-place in the south of England, and were partaking of a rather late breakfast in the coffee-room of the best hotel, wondered what there could be in the first sheet of the _Times_ to cause such a sudden change in the face of their neighbour at the next table. The kind old souls had made a little romance about the handsome, grave-looking young fellow, who had come to the hotel a few days before, and used to sit down to his solitary table in the coffee-room, never seeming to care to talk with anyone. Miss Brown, the elder, had made up her mind that he was an Italian. He was dark and melancholy-looking; Italians were dark and melancholy-looking, therefore the young man was doubtless Italian. Possibly he was an exile, and probably he was married, the Italians, she believed, did marry young, and no doubt his wife was a heartless, worldly person, and caused her husband endless trouble. Miss Brown the younger was inclined to think the young man a Spaniard, there was something very Spanish in his grave, dignified deportment. (N.B.--Miss Brown had never seen a Spaniard in her life.) She had met him on the stairs one day as he was going out, and he had taken off his hat as he passed her. Very few Englishmen would have done that; he was certainly a foreigner of some sort. She, however, scouted the idea that he was married, and made up her mind that he was crossed in love.

"There is the young foreigner," Miss Brown had said to her sister as Donovan came into the coffee-room that morning. They had agreed to call him the _foreigner_, as a sort of general term which suited the opinions of each.

"He is coming to this side of the room," said Miss Marianne, looking up from her egg, but hastily and decorously turning to the window, and making a vague remark about the weather when she found the dark, flashing eyes of the stranger glancing across at her from the other table.

"He looks rather happier this morning," said Miss Brown, in a low tone.

Miss Marianne of course wished him to look gloomy, and tried to see something melancholy in the way in which he sipped his coffee, stroked his moustache, and cut his roll in half, gently insinuating to her sister that men in good spirits would have broken a roll; that to be so methodical in trifles was, she thought, rather a sign of--in fact quite supported her theory. Both ladies were a little startled when the hero of their romance called a waiter, and without the slightest foreign accent asked if the morning papers had come.

"Strange that he should care to see English papers," said Miss Brown, musingly.

"I believe I have heard that Spaniards are very good linguists," said Miss Marianne, timidly.

"Not half so clever as Italians, my dear," said the elder sister. "Think of Dante, and--and Garibaldi."

Miss Marianne was rather overwhelmed by the mention of these great men, and did not for a moment question that they had been renowned linguists; she did indeed try to think of some Spanish celebrity of equal renown, and racked her brains for the name of the author of "Don Quixote," but it had escaped her memory, and before she could recall it the waiter returned with the newspapers. The "foreigner" took the _Times_ and glanced rapidly down the first column; Miss Brown would have liked to think that he looked at the agony column, but his eye travelled too far down the page for that, he would have passed the space allotted to sentimental messages, and have reached the uninteresting notices of lost and found dogs, &c.; Miss Marianne had the best of it now--he was evidently looking at the marriages. The two sisters almost gave a sympathetic start, when suddenly their neighbour's forehead was sharply contracted, and a quick flush rose to his cheek. What could it be? The marriage of the girl whom he loved? There was real and undoubted romance here, not a question of it. How interesting hotel life was, it must be something like watching a play, though Miss Brown had never been to the play--she would have thought it exceedingly wrong. Poor boy! how impatiently he throws down the paper, it falls on to the floor, and Miss Marianne, leaning back in her chair and trying to see below the cloth of the adjoining table, maintains that he has put his foot on it, actually "crushed it under foot," that is very romantic! Then he hastily drains his coffee cup, and when he puts it down, the flush has died away from his face, and has left it very pale, and cold, and still. The arrival of the paper seems to have taken away his appetite, for he abruptly pushes back his chair, leaves his half-finished breakfast, and stalks out of the room.

The sisters were much excited. As they walked on the beach that morning they agreed that East Codrington was a charming place. Some people called it dull, but for their part they thought it a most amusing little town. It was very pleasant to meet fresh faces, very interesting to watch other people's lives. Miss Brown said that the sea air or something made her feel quite young again. Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when Miss Marianne suddenly caught her arm, exclaiming,

"Sister, look, there is the 'foreigner' again!"

Miss Brown looked along the esplanade for the solitary figure with the grave dark face, but could not see it.

"There! there! not nearly so far off," said Miss Marianne. "Don't you see him reading to that little girl in the invalid chair?"

"Impossible!" said Miss Brown, quickly. "He is far too young to have a child of that age; but it is the 'foreigner' I see, she must be his sister. Suppose, Marianne, we sit down a little."

Miss Marianne owned that she was tired, and the two ladies established themselves on the beach, about a stone's throw from Dot and Donovan, taking care to choose a side posture, so that on one hand they could watch the sea, and on the other the hero of their romance. Every now and then the breeze wafted a sentence of the reading to the two sisters. They exchanged glances with each other, and Miss Marianne whispered, "English!" Then something in the book made both the reader and the listener laugh heartily, and the name of "Ali Baba" was caught by Miss Brown, who nodded to her sister, and whispered, "The Arabian Nights." Then came a fresh mystery, the reader's face suddenly became dark and overcast, and there was quite a different tone in his voice as he read the words, "You plainly see that Cogia Houssain only sought your acquaintance in order to insure success in his diabolical treachery."

Now why should Cogia Houssain bring such a strange bitter look into anyone's face? Presently the story of the "Forty Thieves" was finished, and the hero's face was good-tempered again, he moved the little invalid's chair quite to the edge of the esplanade, as near as possible to the shingle, so that without wilful listening the two old ladies could hear all that passed perfectly; whatever their hero was when alone, there could be no doubt that he was merry enough now.

There was a laughing discussion about the dog's swimming powers.

"You only tried him once in the Serpentine, you know," said the little invalid. "I don't believe you dare try him here."

"See if I don't!" said Donovan, laughing, and whistling to the fox-terrier. "I'll throw him a stone."

"No, no, that's no test," said Dot. "Throw him your new stick. Ah! I believe you're afraid to! You don't think he'll get it back!"

"You dare me to?" asked Donovan. "Come along, Waif, and show your mistress how clever you are."

The dog followed his master obediently across the shingle to the water's edge, and plunged in valiantly as soon as the stick was thrown. Donovan had sent it far out, and the receding tide was bearing it further still, but Waif swam on indefatigably, and, after some minutes, clenched it successfully in his teeth, and turned back again. Dot waved her handkerchief from the esplanade in congratulation, and both dog and master hurried up the beach towards her; on the way, however, Waif paused to shake the water from his coat, and, unluckily, the two old ladies were within the radius of the drops, and received a sort of shower bath. Donovan hastened up to apologise.

"I am afraid my dog has been troubling you. I hope he has done no damage?"

"Oh! none, thank you," said the sisters, smiling. "Salt water never gives cold. We were much amused by watching him in the sea."

"He's a capital swimmer. My little sister wouldn't believe he was a water-dog," and then, raising his hat, Donovan passed on with a triumphant greeting to the little invalid.

"Well, Dot! own now that you're beaten."

"Quite beaten. He was splendid," said Dot, enthusiastically.

Presently, as the old ladies rose to move on, and passed close to the brother and sister, Dot looked up in her sweet shy way, and said,

"I hope Waif did not hurt your dress just now?"

Miss Marianne, with a beaming face, hastened to re-assure her.

"Not in the least, my dear, thank you," and then, touched by the fragile little face, the old lady began to search in a Mentone basket that she carried for some of the beach treasures which she had been picking up. "Would you like some shells, my dear? We have found some rather pretty ones this morning."

Dot's shy gratitude was very charming, and Donovan, always pleased by any attention shown to her, began to talk to the old ladies, quite forgetting his usual haughty reserve.

The Miss Browns' romance certainly died out in the light of truth, but they were much interested in the brother and sister, though their hero had proved to be neither a Spaniard nor an Italian. Donovan, however, was rather a puzzle to them. In a few days' time, Miss Marianne learnt to her regret, from some other people at the hotel, that her hero, though so devoted to his little invalid sister, was the most noted billiard-player in the place, and the gentle old ladies regretted it, for, as Miss Brown the elder said, "it was a dangerous taste for such a young man, particularly as he seemed to be his own master." They talked the matter over together, but agreed that they could not presume to offer advice; however, an occasion soon came when their consciences would not allow them to keep silence.

It was Sunday morning; Miss Marianne timidly suggested that, if it would not be wrong, she would very much like a little turn on the esplanade before going to church. Her sister was rather puritanical; however, she thought there could be no harm in "taking the air," so, armed with their large church services and hymn-books, the two old ladies set out. The day was intensely hot and sultry, the sea was as calm as a mill-pond, the tiny waves lazily lapping the shore as if they, too, felt the heat, and could not dance briskly as usual. There was a quiet Sunday feeling all around; no stir of business or traffic; the church bells ringing for service, and the passers-by walking quietly, with none of the hurry and bustle of the ordinary every day passengers. The old ladies enjoyed their walk, but just as they had turned for the last time before going in the direction of the bells they caught sight of their friends in the distance; there was the invalid chair, with the little pale-faced child, and on a bench beside her was Donovan, in a most unsabbatical light-brown shooting-jacket, and cloth travelling-hat; to add to it all, he was smoking, and to the Miss Browns the sight of a cigar was always a sight to be deplored, but on Sunday smoking seemed to them little better than sacrilege. Miss Marianne was almost disarmed by the courtesy of the greeting, but her sister would not allow her face to soften; good looks and pleasant manners were all very well, but "Sabbath breaking" was a sin which could not be passed by, so she tried not to see the fascinating dark eyes, and said, gravely,

"Are you not coming to church to-day, Mr. Farrant?"

"No, Miss Brown," replied Donovan, not at all offended by the question, to which indeed he was pretty well accustomed, "Dot and I mean to sit here and enjoy the view. A beautiful day, is it not?"

"It is very pleasant to see you so attentive to your sister," said Miss Brown, severely, "but religion ought to stand first, young man. The soul ought to be considered before the body."

"There is a very good preacher at St. Oswald's," suggested Miss Marianne, timidly.

Donovan looked at her half sadly and half amusedly, but shook his head, and the two ladies passed on, Miss Brown gathering up her skirts as though she would really be sorry to touch such a hardened and misguided sinner.

He resumed his cigar, but with rather a clouded brow, wishing that people would leave him unmolested. Dot was the first to break the silence.

"What does 'soul' really mean, Dono?" she began, in her childish voice. "Doery calls old Betty, the charwoman, 'poor soul,' but I fancy that is because her husband drinks. Are we all poor souls?"

"Most of us," said Donovan, shortly.

"But what is a soul?" persisted Dot.

"A name given by some people to the mind," he replied. "Though I daresay those old ladies would not agree to that, and would tell you it was quite a different part of you."

Now Dot had lived on contentedly for many years in entire ignorance, but she was just beginning to be roused, and the words of the two old ladies had perplexed her.

"What part of us is it?" she questioned.

He hesitated for a moment.

"The part you love me with, I suppose."

"Then do you think it would be really good for the part you love me with to go to church?"

"No, you sweet little arguer, I don't," he replied, smiling; "and, if it would, I shouldn't go and leave you in your pain, but don't trouble your head about the matter, darling. If religion makes sour, selfish, soul-preservers like that, it stands to reason it's false. I'll have none of it! Fancy listening to a sermon with the idea that it was virtuous, and leaving you to Doery's tender mercies, or all alone with the sun blazing in your eyes!"

He held the umbrella more protectingly over her as he spoke, and was rather vexed to see that her usually smooth serene forehead was knitted in anxious thought.

"What is the matter?" he asked, jealous of anything which she kept back from him.

"I am so puzzled," said Dot, wearily. "I don't know what people mean by religion; my head aches so. Do you think I ought to make myself think what it is?"

"Of course not, you dear little goose," he said, stroking back the hair from her hot face. "Who put such morbid ideas into your head?"

"No one," said Dot, wistfully, "only it seems as if we ought to find out which is right, you or the other people."

"It will not make much difference, perhaps," said Donovan, throwing away the end of his cigar. "We shall all come to an end, I suppose--be smoked out and thrown away, so to speak."

Dot looked troubled, and he hastily bent down and kissed her.

"We are talking of things we know nothing about, dear. You and I must love each other, that is all I know. Don't let us talk of this any more, it only worries you."

"But, Dono, just one thing more. When it is all done, when we die, shall I have to leave off loving you?"

A black shadow passed over his face, but he did not answer. Dot understood what he meant, and clasped her tiny fingers round his tightly.

"Oh! Dono," she said, mournfully, "I couldn't bear to stop loving you--I had never thought about that. Oh! I hope I shall live to be very, very old, even if I'm always ill. Why is your face so white and stiff, Dono? Are you thinking what you would do if I didn't live to be old?"

"_Don't!_" he cried, passionately, and there was such anguish in his tone that Dot looked half frightened, and faltered,

"I didn't mean--I'm very sorry."

He kissed her, and she noticed that his lips were very cold, and his voice, though quieter when he next spoke, sounded odd and unnatural.

"It is all right, darling--I didn't mean to frighten you--it is nothing. I must be alone--I must think."

He moved her chair into the shade, and then walked along the shore battling with the terrible thoughts which filled his mind. What if Dot should be taken away from him? It was the same agonizing idea which Adela's words had suggested to him not long before. Now he was alone and could allow himself to face it, could relax for the time the control which in her presence he was obliged to keep up. Throwing himself down on the shingle, he allowed the shadowy foes one after another to throng up into his mind, wrestling with each in a vain, hopeless endeavour to crush them. Sooner or later the end must come, he knew it perfectly well, and yet, like a hunted creature, he tried for some possible means of escape, or at any rate of delay. Could he force himself, for the sake of peace, to believe what popular religion taught? No, he told himself that it would be as impossible as to believe in the old Norse legends of the happy hunting fields. There was no escape for him, the separation must be faced.

He lay stretched out on the pebbles with his face turned from the light, more wretched and forlorn than the poorest beggar in East Codrington. His miserable struggle and dumb despair were at last broken in upon by the sound of a voice in the distance, a high-pitched man's voice, which beat uncomfortably on his ear, and sounded melancholy and depressing, as open-air speaking generally does sound. He started up impatiently, and saw that a street preacher had gathered together a little knot of men and women on the beach, at no great distance from him. He disliked the interruption, and yet, with a sort of curiosity, sauntered towards the little group, and listened for a few minutes, but unfortunately the preacher happened at the minute to be denouncing "modern ritualism" with much bitterness, and he soon turned away contemptuously. Did not these professing Christians "bite and devour" one another? Did they not unsparingly condemn all with whom they did not agree? And, holding the views they did about the future state, did they not still live easy, quiet, indulgent lives, though they believed that more than half mankind would finally be "lost"?

By-and-by there was singing; with great gusto the preacher started the hymn "There is a fountain." Donovan's misery had been keen enough before, this just made it complete. The old melody--powerful though it is when sung by a great multitude--has something extremely aggravating about it.

"I _will_ believe--I _do_ believe!"

Over and over again with emphatic untunefulness the motley crowd roared and shouted the refrain.

Donovan's dark face grew darker, he set his teeth, listened for a time, then walked away with a look of intense scorn, resolving in his own mind that, miserable though he was, he would at least be honest, no cupboard faith for him!

Dot did not allude to the conversation again. She could not bear to risk recalling the look of pain to Donovan's face, and if she puzzled over the difference of opinion which had attracted her notice, she kept her difficulties to herself; but she fancied she understood why it was that, not long after that Sunday, Donovan made arrangements with an artist staying in the hotel to paint a miniature of her. A sweet, wistful, and yet childlike face it was, but the artist idealised it, and gave to the beautiful eyes more fulness of satisfaction than just at that time they really expressed, leaving it to the lips to show whatever latent sadness or desire there remained.

In September the visit to Codrington was ended; Mrs. Doery was obliged to be at Oakdene to superintend the preparations for the return of her master and mistress, and Donovan wished to be at home when his mother arrived, chiefly from a dislike to coming back when his step-father was actually installed in his new position as head of the household; he chose to be there beforehand, and awaited the return in a sort of proud silence, never even to Dot breathing a single word which could tell how much he dreaded it.

On the whole the event proved to be not half so disagreeable as he had expected. Ellis was kind and conciliatory at first, and, though his patronage was hard to bear, Donovan had sense enough to be thankful for whatever would avert an open quarrel. He felt instinctively that sooner or later there would be disagreement between them, and for Dot's sake he was glad to keep the peace.

What he really suffered from chiefly that autumn was an utterly different thing. Under the new _régime_, Doery had been constituted housekeeper; Ellis was hospitable, and constantly had the Manor full of his friends, so that Mrs. Farrant did not care for the burden and anxiety of household management; it was quite another thing to the quiet routine which she had been able to superintend with little trouble before her second marriage. Mrs. Doery therefore ascended in the domestic scale from nurse to housekeeper, and a new attendant waited on Dot in her place. It seemed a very trifling change in the house, only a new servant, only one insignificant addition, hardly worth thinking of, but to Dot the change meant the opening of a new life. Now, at last, she began to understand the meaning of things. Phœbe, who had been blessed with better teaching than poor old Mrs. Doery, and was more loving and kind-hearted, opened an entirely new world to her little helpless charge, and Dot, in her simple, childlike happiness in the new revelation, wondered why people had not told her before, but never thought of blaming them for the ignorance in which they had let her grow up.

Her simple, unquestioning acceptance of the most incomprehensible doctrines was a marvel to Donovan; he could not the least understand it. Dot once or twice spoke with him on the subject, but he always silenced her gently, for, though he could not understand or sympathise with her new happiness, he was unwilling to interfere with it, or to trouble the child's mind with his own views. He thought it all a delusion, and it pained him that she should believe it; but, seeing how much it must soften both life and death to her, he was willing that she should believe in the delusion. Still the trial to himself was very hard to bear, for though to Dot the change seemed only to intensify her love, and in no way to interfere with Donovan's place in her heart, he necessarily felt that there was a barrier between them; what to him did not exist was everything to her; till lately she had depended entirely on him, now he was superseded--dearly loved still, but yet superseded. This was a greater trouble than all the annoyance of his mother's second marriage. Donovan loved Dot so blindly and solely that the idea of not reigning alone in her heart was terrible to him. Ever since his childhood he had been her protector; to yield her to any other love in which he believed would have been very hard, but to allow his place to be usurped by that which he could not comprehend or believe to be, was bitter beyond all thought. It was, perhaps, the most severe test of his love that there could have been; he passed through it without faltering, tried to find comfort in the sight of her serene happiness, and bore his pain in silence; the fact that it was a strange, unnatural, morbid pain did not make it any easier to endure, but quite the contrary.

Ellis Farrant, not having too tender a conscience, managed to enjoy his new position thoroughly for the first few months. He was in many ways a good-natured man, and it was very pleasant to him, after his bachelor life and small income, to find himself at the head of a comfortable and even luxurious home; his wife was pretty and placid, his means were ample, he was able to ask his friends down to Oakdene for the shooting, and altogether he thoroughly appreciated his change of fortune. For a little while he even felt kindly disposed to Donovan, for, as he said to himself, the poor wretch would have a hard enough life next year, when he came of age, and might as well enjoy the present. He even at times began to regret the part he had set himself to play, wavered a little, and half contemplated starting his ward in some profession fairly and honourably. If Donovan had behaved sensibly, this really might have come about, but he was not sensible. In a very short time he began to grow weary of making polite responses to his step-father's patronage; he never openly disputed his authority or actually quarrelled with him, but he allowed his dislike to show itself, and took no pains to be pleasant and companionable. Ellis was not a man to be trifled with; his kindness was a mere impulse, and directly he found that Donovan did not respond to it, he took offence, and disliked him a great deal more than he had previously done.

It was a most unsatisfactory household. An outsider, locking into the luxurious dining-room of the Manor, might not have discovered anything amiss, certainly; Mrs. Farrant, at the head of the table, looked young and pretty and languid; Ellis, at the opposite end, seemed hospitable and good-natured; Donovan had apparently everything that could be wished in circumstances, health, and personal advantages. But beneath all this outward appearance was a miserable reality of injustice, jealousy, and hatred.

One evening in December, after Mrs. Farrant had left the dinner-table, the storm broke at last. Donovan had been more than usually gloomy and depressed. Dot had just had one of her bad attacks; he was worn out with attending to her; he was morbidly unhappy at the change in her views, and her supposed change towards himself, and his manner towards his step-father had been so short and sullen that the elder man's patience at length gave way.

As the door closed behind Mrs. Farrant, her husband refilled his glass, drained it, and then suddenly confronted his step-son with the fierceness of a weak, impulsive man who is thoroughly exasperated.

"I tell you what, Donovan, if you go on any longer in this way, you can't expect me to be civil to you. Do you think I shall stand having a mute morose idiot of a boy always at my table, a skeleton at the feast? If you don't mend your manners pretty quickly, you won't find this house comfortable."

Donovan did not reply, but cracked three walnuts in succession without even looking up. The absence of retort only made Ellis more angry, however.

"Do you not hear me, sir?" he continued, still more vehemently.

"Yes," said Donovan, looking up at last, and speaking in a singularly controlled voice, which contrasted strangely with his step-father's violence.

Ellis raged on, doubly irritated by the mono-syllable.

"Do you think it is pleasant to me to have your gloomy face always haunting me? I tell you I'd rather sit opposite a skull and cross-bones! I'm not going to have my new home spoilt by an insufferable cub of your age."

Now, with all his faults, Donovan had one good quality which often stood him in good stead. Old Mrs. Doery had at least taught him one useful lesson in his childhood. She had taught him to restrain himself, a lesson which, in these days of universal license to the young, is too often neglected. Many people would have fired up at once, if they had been spoken to in such a way. It would have been hard under any circumstances, but when the words were addressed to him in the house which had been his own father's, and by the man who had ousted him from his proper place, it must be owned that they were most intolerable. He flushed deeply and bit his lip.

"I am glad to see you have the grace to be ashamed," said Ellis, provokingly, impatient of this continued silence.

By this time Donovan had himself well in hand. His face was calm and rigid, and he could trust himself to reply without losing his temper, though his cold pride was not likely to choose wise words.

"I am sorry to have annoyed you, but naturally 'as you have brewed so you will drink.' I have not changed particularly in the last few months, and I suppose last summer you foresaw that there would be two incumbrances in your new home."

Of course this only angered Ellis still more.

"You young puppy!" he exclaimed, angrily, "do you remember whom you are speaking to? Do you know that I can turn you out of the house, if I like? Do you recollect who I am?"

"Yes," said Donovan, ironically, "I remember that you are my father's trustee and my guardian."

Ellis suddenly changed colour, pushed back his chair, and began to pace up and down the room. His step-son's words had stung him far more deeply than the speaker intended. "His father's trustee!" yes, and what a trustee! The name itself was a reproach and a mockery! He felt afraid of Donovan, ashamed to look at him; his recent anger and hatred suddenly died away into a trembling shrinking dread. This boy, whom he had cheated and robbed and fatally injured, was able at times to influence him greatly. He felt that he must be pacified and kept at bay during the few months which remained of his minority.

On the whole, Ellis did not look very much like a happy bridegroom and head of the household as he came back to the table. He was ashy pale, and his hand shook as he poured out his next glass of wine. Donovan, as he waited, with his cold impassive face, expecting a fresh burst of anger, was surprised when his step-father next broke the silence, to find that the storm had been as brief as it had been severe. There was an almost pitiable struggle for really frank reconciliation in Ellis's tone as he said,

"Come, old fellow, don't let us quarrel; we have always been friends. I spoke hastily just now, but, you know, you really cut your own throat by looking so glum. Everyone would like you twice as well if you had a little more go in you. Probyn was saying only the other night what a clever fellow you were. He said he hadn't met a better whist-player for years. You think everyone's against you, and so you're morose and reserved, but I don't know a fellow who has more advantages than you, if only you'd condescend to use them a little more. There! you see I'm giving you quite a paternal lecture. Put that in your pipe, and smoke it. What do you say to some cribbage, now?"

"I'll come down at ten," said Donovan, allowing his face to relax; then, sweeping up a handful of walnut shells, he left the table, and spent the rest of the evening with Dot, making a miniature fleet of boats, to her great content.