on, I should like to point out that you can estimate a man's
character by that of his friends."

"Oh," said Winifred, "then if Mr. Wyllard's strong points are merely to
heighten Gregory's credit, I've nothing more to say. Anyway, I'll
reserve my homage until I've seen him. Perfection among men is scarce
nowadays."

She turned away, and left Agatha thoughtful. In the meanwhile, Mrs.
Hastings came upon Wyllard in the music-room. There was just then
nobody else in it.

"You look quite serious," she said.

"I've been thinking about Miss Ismay and Gregory," said Wyllard. "In
fact, I feel a little anxious about them."

"In which way?"

"Without making any reflections upon Gregory, I somehow feel sorry for
the girl."

Mrs. Hastings nodded. "As a matter of fact, that's very much what I
felt from the first," she said. "Still, you see, there's the important
fact that she's fond of him, and it should smooth out a good many
difficulties. Anyway, what we can call the material ones won't count.
She's evidently rather a courageous person."

The man sat silent a moment or two. "I wasn't troubling about them,"
he said. "I was wondering if she really could be fond of him. It's
some years since she was much in his company."

"Hawtrey is not a man to change."

"That," said Wyllard, "is just the trouble. I've no doubt he's much
the same, but one could fancy that Miss Ismay has changed a good deal
since she last saw him. She'll look for considerably more than she was
probably content with then."

"In any case, it isn't your affair."

"In one sense it certainly isn't; but I can't help feeling a little
troubled about the thing. You see, Gregory is quite an old friend."

"And the girl is going out to marry him," said Mrs. Hastings.

Wyllard rose. "That," he said, "is quite uncalled for. I would like
to assure you of it."

He went out, and the lady sat still in a reflective mood.

"If she begins to compare him with Hawtrey, there can be only one
result," she said.

The fog had almost gone next morning, and pale sunshine streamed down
upon a froth-flecked sea. A bitter wind, however, still came out of
the hazy north, and the _Scarrowmania's_ plates were crusted with ice
where the highest crests of the tumbling seas reached them. The spray
also froze, and the decks grew slippery, until when darkness came
nobody but the seamen faced the stinging cold. Agatha felt the engines
stop late that night, and when s