, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main-boom-lift carried
away, an' next the tackle. The lift was wire, an' it was threshin'
around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin' to grab it, an' I rushed
in an' got swatted."

"Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though
secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was wondering
what a _lift_ was and what _swatted_ meant.

"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into
execution and pronouncing the i long.

"Who?"

"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."

"Swinburne," she corrected.

"Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long
since he died?"

"Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously.
"Where did you make his acquaintance?"

"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his
poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How
do you like his poetry?"

And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had
suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of
the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get
away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her
talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her,
marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head
of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did,
though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by
critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, but
that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was
intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as
he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her
with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight
for--ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the
world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and
great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him whereon loomed
vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of heroic deeds for
woman's sake--for a pale woman, a flower of gold. And through the
swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the
real woman, sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened
as well, but he stared, un