the ship, though," he went on. "Bring it ashore to-morrow."

"Sure you didn't tear it up by mistake or send it away in the laundry?"
she demanded, watching him intently.

"Oh, all right, go on with the sarcasm," he protested, but enjoying it
very much none the less. "Mr. Dainopoulos, you'll be telling me, has got
your hair in a locket, I suppose."

Mr. Spokesly stopped abruptly. He saw an expression of extraordinary
radiance on the girl's face as she lay there, her thin pale fingers
holding the handkerchief by the corner. It suddenly occurred to Mr.
Spokesly that this woman was loved. For the first time in his life he
became aware of a woman's private emotional existence. He achieved a dim
comprehension of the novel fact that a woman might have her own views of
these great matters. He did not phrase it quite like this. He only sat
looking at the girl on the sofa and remarking to himself that women were
peculiar.

"Wouldn't you do that?" she demanded. The light in her eyes diminished
to a steady warm regard.

And Mr. Spokesly began to assert himself once more. Women being so
peculiar, there was no sense in being bullied into any of this here
sentiment. He was a man of the world about to make a--what was it
called? Marriage of convenience ... something like that. Not that
exactly, either. Ada was a darned fine girl. This invalid lady seemed to
think he didn't know what love was.

"Who? Me?" he ejaculated. "Can't say as I see myself, I admit. Not in my
line. Not in any Englishman's line, I don't think. And speaking for
myself, Mrs. Dainopoulos, I reckon I'm past that sort of thing, you
know. Can't teach an old dog new tricks, can you? I look at it this way:
so long as there's enough to keep the pot boiling, it's easy enough to
fall in love with anybody, you see, and when you're married ... soon get
used to it. Ada and me, we're _sensible_."

"You've got it all arranged, then," said Mrs. Dainopoulos, smiling
faintly and looking out into the darkness once more.

"What's the use o' bein' anything else?" inquired Mr. Spokesly, resuming
something of the perfect officer pose, hard-bitten, practical, and
matter-of-fact. "All that business o' dyin' o' love, you know, I
reckon's so much moon-shine. All right in a novel, o' course, but not in
real life. _You_ don't reckon there's anything in it, really, I mean?"
he asked doubtfully.

"I think everything's in it," she sighed. "I think it must be horrible,
being married, wi