a choice between Mrs. Grundy and Davy Jones, I
think I should decide to face Mrs. Grundy! Anyway, people can't say much
more--or much worse--things about me than they've said already."

Quarrington frowned moodily.

"I'd like to kick myself for bringing you out to-day and landing you
into this mess. I can't stand the idea of people gossiping about you."

"They've left me very little reputation at any time. A little less can't
hurt me."

His eyes grew stormy.

"Don't!" he said sharply. "I hate to hear you talk like that."

"But it's true! No public woman gets a fair chance."

"_You_ will--when you're my wife," he said between his teeth. "I'll see
to that."

Magda glanced at him swiftly.

"Then you don't want me to--to give up dancing after we're married?"

"Certainly I don't. I shall want you to do just as you like. I've no
place for the man who asks his wife to 'give up' things in order to
marry him. I've no more right to ask you to give up dancing than you
have to ask me to stop painting."

Magda smiled at him radiantly.

"Saint Michel, you're really rather nice," she observed impertinently.
"So few men are as sensible as that. I shall call you the 'Wise Man,' I
think."

"In spite of to-day?" he queried whimsically, with a rueful glance at
the debris of mast and canvas huddled on the deck.

"_Because_ of to-day," she amended softly. "It's--it's very wise to be
in love, Michael."

He drew her into his arms and his lips found hers.

"I think it is," he agreed.

Another hour went by, and still there came no sign of any passing
vessel.

"Why the devil isn't there a single tug passing up and down just when
we happen to want one?" demanded Quarrington irately of the unresponsive
universe. He swung round on Magda. "I suppose you're starving?" he went
on, in his voice a species of savage discontent--that unreasonable fury
to which masculine temperament is prone when confronted with an obstacle
which declines to yield either to force or persuasion.

Magda laughed outright.

"I'll admit to being hungry. Aren't you? . . . It's horribly unromantic
of us, Michael," she added regretfully.

Quarrington grinned.

"It is," he assented. "All the same, I believe I could consume a tin of
bully beef and feel humbly grateful for it at the present moment!"

Magda had a sudden inspiration.

"Michael! Let's forage in the locker! There's almost sure to be some
biscuits or chocolate there. Marraine nearly always