home, but if it is anything urgent and you have half an hour
to spare----"

He stopped in his speech, silenced by a shock of something like shame.
He was prevaricating. He knew perfectly well that "it" was the most
urgent errand a man could have, next to his duty to his country, that
had brought the young sailor to his house. Twenty-four hours ago he
would not have noticed such a trifle: but it was no trifle now; for to
his clearer vision it was a sin, an evasion of the immutable laws of
Truth, utterly unworthy of the companion of Nitocris the Queen in that
other existence which he had just left.

"You have seen Niti, I suppose?" he continued, with singular directness.

"Yes," replied Merrill. "You will remember that the week was up this
morning, and so I called to learn my fate, and your daughter has told
me. I presume that your decision is final, and that, therefore, there is
nothing more to be said on the subject."

"My decisions are usually final, Mr Merrill, because I do not arrive at
them without due consideration. I am deeply grieved, as I have told you
before, but my decision is a deduction from what I consider to be an
unbreakable chain of argument which I need not trouble you with.
Personally and socially, of course, it would be impossible for me to
have the slightest objection to you. In fact, apart from your execrable
fighting profession, I like you; but otherwise, as you know, I cannot
help looking at you as the survival of an age of barbarism, a hark-back
of humanity, for all the honour in which that trade is held by an
ignorant and deluded world; and so for the last time it is my painful
task to tell you that there can be no union between your blood and mine.
Outside that, of course, there is no reason why we should not remain
friends."

"Very well, sir," replied Merrill, "I have heard your decision, and Miss
Marmion has told me she is resolved to abide by it; I should be
something less than a man if I attempted to alter her resolve. We are
ordered on foreign service this week, and so for the present,
good-bye."

He lifted his hat, turned away and walked down the road with teeth
clenched and eyes fixed straight in front of him, and a shade of grey
under the tan of his skin.

The Professor looked after him for a few moments and turned in at the
gate, saying:

"It's a great pity in some ways--many ways, in fact. He's a fine young
fellow and a thorough gentleman, and I'm afraid they're very fond of