the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air
of a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling
contrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it was
a clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half
tears, such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in another
without a dumb feeling of shame and shyness.

But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there by
this time--only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glance
and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood
between mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent.

"We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate," said a man, bearing the
reputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two appreciators
answered:

"You're right," and laughed good-humouredly.

The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort at
self-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by some
generations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance with
Dormer Colville, who stood at his side leaning on his gold-headed cane.
Colville's expression seemed to say:

"I told you what it would be. But wait: there is more to come."

His affable eyes made a round of the watching faces, and even exchanged
a sympathetic smile with some, as if to hint that his clothes were only
fine because he belonged to a fine generation, but that his heart was as
human as any beating under a homelier coat.

"There's Passen," said one woman to another, behind the corner of her
apron, within Colville's hearing. "It takes a deal to bring him out o'
doors nowadays, and little Sep and--Miss Miriam."

Dormer Colville heard the words. And he heard something unspoken in the
pause before the mention of the last name. He did not look at once in
the direction indicated by a jerk of the speaker's thumb, but waited
until a change of position enabled him to turn his head without undue
curiosity. He threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after the
manner of one cramped by standing too long in one attitude.

A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke was wider, a
grey-haired man was walking slowly toward the quay. In front of him a
boy of ten years was endeavouring to drag a young girl toward the jetty
at a quicker pace than she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosity
and looking back toward the man who followed them with the abstraction
and indifference of a