Brown had been very much vexed at her dismissal. The Browns were a
childless couple and the arrangement had suited them perfectly. Their
resentment was very bitter. Mrs. Brown had to remain ashore alone with
her rage, but the steward was nursing his on board. Poor Flora had no
greater enemy, the aggrieved mate had no greater sympathizer. And Mrs.
Brown, with a woman's quick power of observation and inference (the
putting of two and two together) had come to a certain conclusion which
she had imparted to her husband before leaving the ship. The morose
steward permitted himself once to make an allusion to it in Powell's
hearing. It was in the officers' mess-room at the end of a meal while he
lingered after putting a fruit pie on the table. He and the chief mate
started a dialogue about the alarming change in the captain, the sallow
steward looking down with a sinister frown, Franklin rolling upwards his
eyes, sentimental in a red face. Young Powell had heard a lot of that
sort of thing by that time. It was growing monotonous; it had always
sounded to him a little absurd.
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