"If you like."

"Does that mean you don't want me to come?"

She smiled at him.

"Mr. Campbell," she laughed gently, "you know very well what I am. If
you don't call on me it won't mean anything to me. If you do call I
think I'll be rather glad. Because on first appearances I like you. But
do whatever you like. I have no wiles."

"Thank God for that!"

Lincoln, master of the _Katurah Knopp_, listened in with a silent
chuckle. She was a queer one, Hedda was. And Campbell, he was a queer
one, too. Two queer ones together. Hedda was all right, but a man
sickened of her quick. She wasn't what you might call warm. No
affection; that's what a man missed far from home, affection. Yes,
affection. Hedda had none. She was a fine woman, but she had no
affection. He liked to see men get stung. In a few days Campbell would
be down at the club with a face as long as to-day and to-morrow. He
would call for a drink angrily.

"Well, captain, what's got into you? You don't look happy."

And Campbell, like the others, would grumble something about a
God-damned big Swede.

"Hey, what's wrong? Ain't Hedda treated you right?"

"Sure, she treated me right," he would say as the others said, "but God
damn! that woman's not human. Take away that rot-gut and gi' me whisky.
I got a touch o' chill."

Lincoln had seen it all before. He liked to see it all the time. He
chuckled as Shane turned to him.

"Lincoln, are you seeing this lady home?"

"Not if you want to."

"I don't want to break up any arrangements of yours."

"Tell the truth," Lincoln said, "I've got a little party to-night. A
party as is a party--Spanish girls, Spanish dancers ... I wish I could
take you, but it ain't my party...."

"Then I'll see Miss Hagen home."

Dog-gone, Lincoln would have to go down to the club and tell 'em how
Campbell of the _Maid of the Isles_ got stuck with the human iceberg!

Section 5

Without, the west wind had increased suddenly, a cold steady wind,
coasting down the Argentine pampas, bending the sparse trees and giant
thistle, ruffling the river, shallowing it, until to-morrow many a poor
sailorman would regret his optimistic anchorage ... Shane shivered....
To-morrow October would be making a din in the streets.... And the poor
skippers fighting their way round the Horn, icy winds and head seas and
immense gray dirty-bearded waves.... To-morrow three men were to be shot
in the 25 de Mayo for a political offense, and Shane could