Poor Flora, taken very much unawares, made
an inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the
direction of the pacing Anthony who was not looking her way. It was no
use glancing in that direction. Of young Powell, leaning against the
mizzen-mast and facing his captain she could only see the shoulder and
part of a blue serge back.

And the unworried, unaccented voice of her father went on tormenting her.

"You see, you must understand. When I came out of jail it was with joy.
That is, my soul was fairly torn in two--but anyway to see you happy--I
had made up my mind to that. Once I could be sure that you were happy
then of course I would have had no reason to care for life--strictly
speaking--which is all right for an old man; though naturally . . . no
reason to wish for death either. But this sort of life! What sense,
what meaning, what value has it either for you or for me? It's just
sitting down to look at the death, that's coming, coming. What else is
it? I don't know how you can put up with that. I don't think you can
stand it for long. Some day you will jump overboard."

Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring ahead from the break of
the poop, and poor Flora sent at his back a look of despairing appeal
which would have moved a heart of stone. But as though she had done
nothing he did not stir in the least. She got out of the long chair and
went towards the companion. Her father followed carrying a few small
objects, a handbag, her handkerchief, a book. They went down together.

It was only then that Captain Anthony turned, looked at the place they
had vacated and resumed his tramping, but not his desultory conversation
with his second officer. His nervous exasperation had grown so much that
now very often he used to lose control of his voice. If he did not watch
himself it would suddenly die in his throat. He had to make sure before
he ventured on the simplest saying, an order, a remark on the wind, a
simple good-morning. That's why his utterance was abrupt, his answers to
people startlingly brusque and often not forthcoming at all.

It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at grips not only
with unknown forces, but with a well-known force the real might of which
he had not understood. Anthony had discovered that he was not the proud
master but the chafing captive of his generosity. It rose in front of
him like a wall which his respect for himself forba