the edge of tragic things.

Martin never once mentioned my husband or my marriage, or his letters to
my father, the Bishop and Father Dan, which had turned out so terribly
true; but we had our serious moments for all that, and one of them was
when we were bending over a large chart which he had spread out on the
table to show me the course of the ship through the Great Unknown,
leaning shoulder to shoulder, so close that our heads almost touched,
and I could see myself in his eyes as he turned to speak to me.

"You were a little under the weather yesterday, shipmate--what was the
cause of it?" he asked.

"Oh, we . . . we can talk of that another time, can't we?" I answered,
and then we both laughed again, goodness knows why, unless it was
because we felt we were on the verge of unlocking the doors of each
other's souls.

Oh that joyful, wonderful, heart-swelling day! But no day ever passed so
quickly. At half-past six Martin said we must be going back, or I should
be late for dinner, and a few minutes afterwards we were in the launch,
which had returned to fetch us.

I had had such a happy time on the ship that as we were steaming off I
kissed my hand to her, whereupon Treacle, who was standing at the top of
the companion, taking the compliment to himself, returned the salute
with affectionate interest, which sent Martin and me into our last wild
shriek of laughter.

The return trip was just as delightful as the coming out had been,
everything looking different the other way round, for the sunset was
like a great celestial fire which had been lighted in the western sky,
and the big darkening city seemed to have turned its face to it.

Martin talked all the way back about a scheme he had afoot for going
down to the region of the Pole again in order to set up some machinery
that was to save life and otherwise serve humanity, and while I sat
close up to him, looking into his flashing eyes--they were still as blue
as the bluest sea--I said, again and again: "How splendid! How glorious!
What a great, great thing it will be for the world."

"Won't it?" he said, and his eyes sparkled like a boy's.

Thus the time passed without our being aware how it was going, and we
were back at Westminster Pier before I bethought me that of the sad and
serious subject I had intended to speak about I had said nothing at
all.

But all London seemed to have been taking holiday that day, for as we
drove in a taxi up Parliament Street