sight," affirmed d'Alcacer, "as well as love
at first sight--the coup de foudre--you know."

She looked up for a moment, and he went on, gravely: "I think it is the
truest, the most profound of sentiments. You do not love because of what
is in the other. You love because of something that is in you--something
alive--in yourself." He struck his breast lightly with the tip of one
finger. "A capacity in you. And not everyone may have it--not everyone
deserves to be touched by fire from heaven."

"And die," she said.

He made a slight movement.

"Who can tell? That is as it may be. But it is always a privilege, even
if one must live a little after being burnt."

Through the silence between them, Mr. Travers' voice came plainly,
saying with irritation:

"I've told you already that I do not want you. I've sent a messenger to
the governor of the Straits. Don't be importunate."

Then Lingard, standing with his back to them, growled out something
which must have exasperated Mr. Travers, because his voice was pitched
higher:

"You are playing a dangerous game, I warn you. Sir John, as it happens,
is a personal friend of mine. He will send a cruiser--" and Lingard
interrupted recklessly loud:

"As long as she does not get here for the next ten days, I don't care.
Cruisers are scarce just now in the Straits; and to turn my back on you
is no hanging matter anyhow. I would risk that, and more! Do you hear?
And more!"

He stamped his foot heavily, Mr. Travers stepped back.

"You will gain nothing by trying to frighten me," he said. "I don't know
who you are."

Every eye in the yacht was wide open. The men, crowded upon each
other, stared stupidly like a flock of sheep. Mr. Travers pulled out
a handkerchief and passed it over his forehead. The face of the
sailing-master who leaned against the main mast--as near as he dared
to approach the gentry--was shining and crimson between white whiskers,
like a glowing coal between two patches of snow.

D'Alcacer whispered:

"It is a quarrel, and the picturesque man is angry. He is hurt."

Mrs. Travers' fan rested on her knees, and she sat still as if waiting
to hear more.

"Do you think I ought to make an effort for peace?" asked d'Alcacer.

She did not answer, and after waiting a little, he insisted:

"What is your opinion? Shall I try to mediate--as a neutral, as a
benevolent neutral? I like that man with the beard."

The interchange of angry phrases went on aloud, ami