cidity. "You must give me time to turn round. I can't keep
her on board all the time. I must tell her something. Say, for instance,
that he is gone up the river. Expected back every day. That's it. D'ye
hear? You must put her on that tack and dodge her along easy, while I
take the kinks out of the situation. By God!" he exclaimed, mournfully,
after a short pause, "life is foul! Foul like a lee forebrace on a dirty
night. And yet. And yet. One must see it clear for running before going
below--for good. Now you attend to what I said," he added, sharply, "if
you don't want to quarrel with me, my boy."

"I don't want to quarrel with you," murmured Almayer with unwilling
deference. "Only I wish I could understand you. I know you are my
best friend, Captain Lingard; only, upon my word, I can't make you out
sometimes! I wish I could . . ."

Lingard burst into a loud laugh which ended shortly in a deep sigh. He
closed his eyes, tilting his head over the back of his armchair; and on
his face, baked by the unclouded suns of many hard years, there appeared
for a moment a weariness and a look of age which startled Almayer, like
an unexpected disclosure of evil.

"I am done up," said Lingard, gently. "Perfectly done up. All night on
deck getting that schooner up the river. Then talking with you. Seems to
me I could go to sleep on a clothes-line. I should like to eat something
though. Just see about that, Kaspar."

Almayer clapped his hands, and receiving no response was going to call,
when in the central passage of the house, behind the red curtain of the
doorway opening upon the verandah, they heard a child's imperious voice
speaking shrilly.

"Take me up at once. I want to be carried into the verandah. I shall be
very angry. Take me up."

A man's voice answered, subdued, in humble remonstrance. The faces of
Almayer and Lingard brightened at once. The old seaman called out--

"Bring the child. Lekas!"

"You will see how she has grown," exclaimed Almayer, in a jubilant tone.

Through the curtained doorway Ali appeared with little Nina Almayer in
his arms. The child had one arm round his neck, and with the other she
hugged a ripe pumelo nearly as big as her own head. Her little pink,
sleeveless robe had half slipped off her shoulders, but the long black
hair, that framed her olive face, in which the big black eyes looked out
in childish solemnity, fell in luxuriant profusion over her shoulders,
all round her and over Ali's