ilers; her captain's waiting, her
crew ready--a greyhound in leash; she can do fifteen knots an hour
without being pressed. In one hour she would be free of the Thames
and on the high seas--(delightful phrase, eh?)--high seas indeed where
there is freedom uncontrolled.

"If one started now one could breakfast in France, at Boulogne, let us
say, or Dieppe; one could lunch at St. Malo or St. Enogat or any place
you like on the coast of Normandy, and one could dine comfortably at
the Sables d'Olonne, where there is not an Englishman to be found, and
where sunshine reigns even in May from morning till night.

"What do you say, Oscar, will you come and try a homely French
bourgeois dinner to-morrow evening at an inn I know almost at the
water's edge? We could sit out on the little terrace and take our
coffee in peace under the broad vine leaves while watching the silver
pathway of the moon widen on the waters. We could smile at the
miseries of London and its wolfish courts shivering in cold grey mist
hundreds of miles away. Does not the prospect tempt you?"

I spoke at leisure, tasting each delight, looking for his gladness.

"Oh, Frank," he cried, "how wonderful; but how impossible!"

"Impossible! don't be absurd," I retorted. "Do you see those lights
yonder?" and I showed him some lights at the Park gate on the top of
the hill in front of us.

"Yes, Frank."

"That's a brougham," I said, "with a pair of fast horses. It will take
us for a midnight visit to the steam yacht in double-quick time.
There's a little library on board of French books and English; I've
ordered supper in the cabin--lobster a l'Americaine and a bottle of
Pommery. You've never seen the mouth of the Thames at night, have you?
It's a scene from wonderland; houses like blobs of indigo fencing you
in; ships drifting past like black ghosts in the misty air, and the
purple sky above never so dark as the river, the river with its
shifting lights of ruby and emerald and topaz, like an oily, opaque
serpent gliding with a weird life of its own.... Come; you must visit
the yacht."

I turned to him, but he was no longer by my side. I gasped; what had
happened? The mist must have hidden him; I ran back ten yards, and
there he was leaning against the railing, hung up with his head on his
arm shaking.

"What's the matter, Oscar?" I cried. "What on earth's the matter?"

"Oh, Frank, I can't go," he cried, "I can't. It would be too
wonderful; but it's imposs