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They’re ’uman, ain’t they? And they ain’t all Spaniolas on the islands. You’ll see every colour of ’ide from a full buck negro to an ’alfw’ite blonde. But wot’s the odds? I think on the proverb: We’re all alike under our skins. And I love my coloured brother just the syme. That’s gospel, that is, in the Book, strike me blind. ’Ooever comes to my plyce gets fair word and no favour.’
    â€˜You are in business, then,’ queried Robert stiffly, ‘in Santa Cruz?’
    â€˜I’m in business, señor. I just keep a little hanky-panky towny place.’
    Susan, in her corner, had been silent, studying the other woman’s face, but now she asked almost wonderingly:
    â€˜What kind of a place, ma’am, do you keep?’
    Mother Hemmingway knocked her ash to the floor and spat a shred of leaf sideways from her tongue. Then she turned, compassed Susan with her knowing bead-like eye, and smiled with her lips.
    â€˜A kind of an ’otel it would be, dearie. Very simple. Bed and breakfast – odds and hends in that line. Nothing flash. Just a plyne goddam honest business.’
    There came a silence, then Susan, inhaling unexpectedly a breath of smoke-filled air, began suddenly to cough. It was a momentary spasm but, accentuated by a vague preliminary undulation of the ship, it recalled Tranter’s attention to the odious business of the cigar. When he had given Susan a glass of water from the carafe on the tip-up stand, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and said with some earnestness:
    â€˜I trust, ma’am, you are not going to resent my words. We are Christian people, myself and my sister, missioners of the Seventh Day Unity of Connecticut, and we do not hold with the use of tobacco, especially in the case of females. And more. You see, my sister cannot stand the odour of the weed. With this in mind, might I beg you, in the name of Christian charity, to withhold from smoking in the cabin during this present voyage?’
    Mother Hemmingway’s jaw dropped; she stared at Robert; then all at once she began to laugh. She laughed with a secret convulsive merriment which shook her fat body – as in the contortions of a terrific grief – like a blancmange agitated by an earthquake. She declared at length:
    â€˜That’s blymed funny. Mucho richo, señor. Thanks for the caracajada. Beats the bleedin’ band. Wye, don’t yer know, charity begins at ’ ome. ’Ere,’ she tapped her still quivering bosom. ‘ Wye, I punishes an ’undred cigars a month – my own brand – Perfecto ’Emmingway – made special at Las Palmas. Might as well ask me to give up my gyme of w’ist. No, mister, I wouldn’t stop my seegarillos if you offered me salvation on a plyte.’
    Robert flushed richly, but before he could reply Susan interposed.
    â€˜It’s no good, Robbie,’ she said, aside. ‘Let her be. I’ll manage.’
    Mother Hemmingway caught up the words.
    â€˜Of course she’ll manage. Me and ’er’ll be bosom pals when the ship gets into Santa.’ She darted an oblique glance at Robert from beneath her bulging forehead. ‘You’re good-lookin’, mister. But you want to see the joke. Sabe. Laugh and grow fat.’
    Again Tranter made to speak, but he looked at her and thought the better of it. He turned instead to Susan and, his colour still high, remarked self-consciously:
    â€˜I guess I’ll get round to my cabin. Reckon I might put through an hour’s study before we eat.’
    She nodded her head, pressed his hand understandingly as he opened the cabin door and with his head in the air stepped out.
    On deck it was cold, and the wind blew with force, striking gratefully on his heated face. The estuary now lay behind, the land likewise a thin elusive blur upon the ship’s port quarter. Soon he felt calmer – it was typical of