a glance that she did not belong to them, but
was gazing after the _Berenice_; a forlorn, tearless figure, with a
handkerchief crumpled up into a ball in her hand. Affability was a part
of Gilbart's profession, and besides, he hated to see a woman suffer.
He edged toward her and lifted his hat.

"I hope," said he, "these persons are not annoying you? They don't
understand, of course. I, too, have a friend on the _Berenice_."

The woman looked at him as though she heard but could not for the moment
grasp what he said. She tightened her grip on the handkerchief and kept
her lips firmly compressed.

Gilbart saw that, though tearless, her eyes wore traces of tears--no
redness, but some swelling of the lids, with dark semicircles
underneath.

"To them," he went on, nodding toward the holiday-keepers, "it's only
regatta day. To them she's only a passing ship helping to make up the
pretty scene. They know nothing of the gallant hearts she carries or
the sore ones she leaves behind. If they knew, I wonder if they'd care?
The ordinary Anglo-Saxon has so little imagination!"

She was staring at him now, and at length seemed to understand.
But with understanding there grew in her eyes a look of anger, almost of
repugnance. "Oh, please go away!" she said.

He lifted his hat and obeyed; indeed, he walked off to the farthest end
of the Hoe. He was hurt. He had a thin-skinned vanity, and hated to
look small even before a stranger. That snub poisoned his morning, and
although he looked at the yachts, his mind ran all the time upon the
encounter. To be sure he had brought it upon himself, but he preferred
to consider that he had meant kindly--had obviously meant kindly.
He tried to invent a retort,--a gentle, dignified retort which would
have touched her to a regret for her injustice--nothing more.
Perhaps it was not yet too late to return and convey his protest under a
delicate apology; or perhaps the mere sight of him, casually passing,
might move her to make amends. He even strolled back some way with this
idea, but she had disappeared.

The _Berenice_ had vanished too; around Penlee Point no doubt.
He remembered the field-glasses slung in a case by his hip and was
fumbling with the leather strap when a drop of rain fell on his hand,
the herald of a smart shower. A dark squall came whistling down the
Hamoaze; and standing there in the fringe of it he saw it strike and
spread itself out like a fan over the open S