nd eat?" asked Mr. Spokesly.

"The steward, he tell me there's a lady in the cabin, Mister Mate, so I
t'ink I'll wait till she feenish."

"You don't need to," was the steady answer.

"Yes, I wait till she feenish, all the same."

"Very well. Mind they keep the canvas over the hatch. It shows a long
way across a smooth sea, you know."

"I watch 'em, Mister Mate."

And Mr. Spokesly went forward again. In spite of the gravity of their
position, without guns or escort, he felt satisfied with himself. He
passed once more by the rail before going in. In his present mood, he
was mildly concerned that Evanthia should have found it necessary to
"turn the key in his face." He didn't intend to do things that way. It
would be pretty cheap taking an advantage like that. Was it likely he
would run all this risk for her, if that was all he thought of her? He
was painfully correct and logical in his thoughts. Well, she would learn
he was not like that. He would treat her decently, and when they reached
Piraeus, he would carry out her wishes to the letter. He could not help
worrying about the day or two they would remain in Phyros. She would
have to keep out of sight.... He opened the cabin door and went in. He
had a strange sensation of walking into some place and giving himself
up, only to find that he had forgotten what he had done. A strange
notion!

She looked up and regarded him with critical approval. She had finished
eating and sat with her chin in her hands. The swinging lamp shed a
flood of mellow light upon her, and her arms, bare to the elbow, gleamed
like new ivory below the shadowy pallor of her face. And as he sat down
at the other end of the table, facing her, he had another strange
notion, or rather a fresh unfolding of the same, that at last they met
on equal ground, face to face, measured in a mysterious and mystical
antagonism. She lifted her chin, a movement of symbolical significance,
and met his gaze with wide-open challenging amber eyes.

And when he went up on the bridge half an hour later, she expressed a
charming and sudden desire to see the things he did there, and the
mystery of the night.

"You'll be cold," he muttered, thinking of the night air. He led her
carefully up the little ladder, and she shivered.

"Bos'," said Mr. Spokesly in a low tone. "Have you got an overcoat?"

"Of course I have. What do you think I am?" demanded the rather tired
Plouff.

"You wouldn't if you had had to jump in