Unlike as they were externally--and there could scarcely be a more
decided contrast than between Florence in her delicate youth and beauty,
and Captain Cuttle with his knobby face, his great broad weather-beaten
person, and his gruff voice--in simple innocence of the world's ways and
the world's perplexities and dangers, they were nearly on a level. No
child could have surpassed Captain Cuttle in inexperience of
everything but wind and weather; in simplicity, credulity, and generous
trustfulness. Faith, hope, and charity, shared his whole nature among
them. An odd sort of romance, perfectly unimaginative, yet perfectly
unreal, and subject to no considerations of worldly prudence or
practicability, was the only partner they had in his character. As
the Captain sat, and smoked, and looked at Florence, God knows what
impossible pictures, in which she was the principal figure, presented
themselves to his mind. Equally vague and uncertain, though not so
sanguine, were her own thoughts of the life before her; and even as her
tears made prismatic colours in the light she gazed at, so, through her
new and heavy grief, she already saw a rainbow faintly shining in the
far-off sky. A wandering princess and a good monster in a storybook
might have sat by the fireside, and talked as Captain Cuttle and poor
Florence talked--and not have looked very much unlike them.

The Captain was not troubled with the faintest idea of any difficulty
in retaining Florence, or of any responsibility thereby incurred. Having
put up the shutters and locked the door, he was quite satisfied on
this head. If she had been a Ward in Chancery, it would have made no
difference at all to Captain Cuttle. He was the last man in the world to
be troubled by any such considerations.

So the Captain smoked his pipe very comfortably, and Florence and he
meditated after their own manner. When the pipe was out, they had some
tea; and then Florence entreated him to take her to some neighbouring
shop, where she could buy the few necessaries she immediately wanted. It
being quite dark, the Captain consented: peeping carefully out first,
as he had been wont to do in his time of hiding from Mrs MacStinger; and
arming himself with his large stick, in case of an appeal to arms being
rendered necessary by any unforeseen circumstance.

The pride Captain Cuttle had, in giving his arm to Florence, and
escorting her some two or three hundred yards, keeping a bright look-out