I shall go to sea to-morrow, said Saltash, with sudden decision. I’m tired of this place, Larpent, - fed up on repletion.
Then by all means let us go, my lord! said Larpent, with the faint glimmer of a smile behind his beard, which was the only expression of humour he ever permitted himself. Believe you’re fed up too, said Saltash, flashing a critical look upon him. Captain Larpent said nothing, deeming speech unnecessary. All time spent ashore was wasted in his opinion. Saltash turned and surveyed the sky-line over the yacht’s rail with obvious discontent on his ugly face. His eyes were odd, one black, one grey, giving a curiously unstable appearance to a countenance which otherwise might have claimed to possess some strength. His brows were black and deeply marked. He had a trick of moving them in conjunction with his thoughts so that his face was seldom in absolute repose. It was said that there was a strain of royal blood in Saltash, and in the days before he had succeeded to the title when he had been merely Charles Burchester, he had borne the nickname of the merry monarch.