ically, was going to sea next day. He had had
enough of the Dock. I understood his impatience. He had steeled himself
against any possible worry the voyage might bring, though it is clear
enough now that he was not prepared for the extraordinary experience
that was awaiting him already, and in no other part of the world than
the Indian Ocean itself; the very part of the world where the poor
fellow had lost his ship and had broken his luck, as it seemed for good
and all, at the same time.

As to his remorse in regard to a certain secret action of his life,
well, I understand that a man of Bunter's fine character would suffer
not a little. Still, between ourselves, and without the slightest wish
to be cynical, it cannot be denied that with the noblest of us the fear
of being found out enters for some considerable part into the composition
of remorse. I didn't say this in so many words to Bunter, but, as the
poor fellow harped a bit on it, I told him that there were skeletons in
a good many honest cupboards, and that, as to his own particular guilt,
it wasn't writ large on his face for everybody to see--so he needn't
worry as to that. And besides, he would be gone to sea in about twelve
hours from now.

He said there was some comfort in that thought, and went off then
to spend his last evening for many months with his wife. For all his
wildness, Bunter had made no mistake in his marrying. He had married a
lady. A perfect lady. She was a dear little woman, too. As to her pluck,
I, who know what times they had to go through, I cannot admire her
enough for it. Real, hard-wearing every day and day after day pluck that
only a woman is capable of when she is of the right sort--the undismayed
sort I would call it.

The black mate felt this parting with his wife more than any of
the previous ones in all the years of bad luck. But she was of the
undismayed kind, and showed less trouble in her gentle face than the
black-haired, buccaneer-like, but dignified mate of the _Sapphire_. It
may be that her conscience was less disturbed than her husband's. Of
course, his life had no secret places for her; but a woman's conscience
is somewhat more resourceful in finding good and valid excuses. It
depends greatly on the person that needs them, too.

They had agreed that she should not come down to the Dock to see him
off. "I wonder you care to look at me at all," said the sensitive man.
And she did not laugh.

Bunter was very sensitive;