dd one. Lilith."

"An old one too; the oldest she-name on record, bar none."

"What? How does that come in?"

"Tradition hath it that Lilith was Adam's first wife. That makes it the
oldest she-name on record, doesn't it?"

"Of course. What a rum chap you are, Stanninghame! Now, I wonder how
many fellows could have told one that?"

"Well, I am a 'know-a-little-of-everything,' they tell me," said
Laurence, without a shade of self-complacency. "But, I say, what do
these two want bothering around? Not another subscription already?"

Two individuals, armed with mysterious pencil and paper, were moving
from group to group, with a word to each. The hawk-like profile of the
one bespoke his nationality if not his tribe, even as the pug-nosed,
squab-faced figure-head of the other spoke to his.

"It's the 'sweep,'" said Holmes, with kindling interest. "They're going
to draw it in the smoke-room. Come along and see it. It'll be something
to do."

"But I don't want something to do. I want to do nothing, as I told you
just now, and---- Hallo! By George, he's gone!"

One glance at the retreating Holmes, who was making all sail for the
smoke-room, and Laurence tranquilly resumed his former
occupation--gazing out over the blue-green surface, to wit. Not long,
however, was he to be left to the enjoyment of the same.

"Can I have this chair? Is it anybody's?"

He turned, but did not start at the voice, which was soft and well
modulated. The two deck-chairs had been backed against the companion, in
whose doorway now stood framed the form of the speaker.

Rather tall, of exquisite proportions, billowing in splendid curves from
the perfectly round waist, the form was about as complete an example of
female anatomy as humanity could show of whatever race or clime. The
head, well set, was carried rather proudly, the cut of the cool, light
blouse displaying a pillar-like throat. Hazel eyes, melting, dark
fringed; brows strongly marked, enough to show plenty of character,
without being heavy; hair abundant, curled in a fringe upon the
forehead, and drawn back from the head in sheeny, dark brown waves. Such
was the vision which Laurence Stanninghame beheld, as he turned at the
sound of the voice. Well, what then? He had seen it before.

"It isn't anybody's chair," he replied, rising.

"Oh, thank you," she said, stepping forth. "No, don't trouble; I can
carry it myself," she added.

"Where do you want it taken to?" he said, ignori