some
reason or other she took a particular aversion to me. Oh! I can see her
now, seated in that saloon with the oil lamp swinging over her head (she
always chose the position under the oil lamp because it showed off
her diamonds). And I can hear her too. "Don't bring any of your
elephant-hunting manners here, Mr. Allan" (with an emphasis on the
Allan) "Quatermain, they are not fit for polite society. You should go
and brush your hair, Mr. Quatermain." (I may explain that my hair sticks
up naturally.)

Then would come her little husband's horrified "Hush! hush! you are
quite insulting, my dear."

Oh! why do I remember it all after so many years when I have even
forgotten the people's names? One of those little things that stick in
the mind, I suppose. The Island of Ascension, where we called, sticks
also with its long swinging rollers breaking in white foam, its bare
mountain peak capped with green, and the turtles in the ponds. Those
poor turtles. We brought two of them home, and I used to look at them
lying on their backs in the forecastle flapping their fins feebly. One
of them died, and I got the butcher to save me the shell. Afterwards I
gave it as a wedding present to Mr. and Mrs. Scroope, nicely polished
and lined. I meant it for a work-basket, and was overwhelmed with
confusion when some silly lady said at the marriage, and in the hearing
of the bride and bridegroom, that it was the most beautiful cradle
she had ever seen. Of course, like a fool, I tried to explain, whereon
everybody tittered.

But why do I write of such trifles that have nothing to do with my
story?

I mentioned that I had ventured to send a letter to Miss Margaret
Manners about Mr. Charles Scroope, in which I said incidentally that if
the hero should happen to live I should probably bring him home by
the next mail. Well, we got into Plymouth about eight o'clock in the
morning, on a mild, November day, and shortly afterwards a tug arrived
to take off the passengers and mails; also some cargo. I, being an early
riser, watched it come and saw upon the deck a stout lady wrapped in
furs, and by her side a very pretty, fair-haired young woman clad in a
neat serge dress and a pork-pie hat. Presently a steward told me that
someone wished to speak to me in the saloon. I went and found these two
standing side by side.

"I believe you are Mr. Allan Quatermain," said the stout lady. "Where is
Mr. Scroope whom I understand you have brought home? Tel