em heavily
laden negroes and a few sailors passed and repassed. The burly
red-headed mate often looked at her; amazement and curiosity were
depicted on his features; he almost forgot the duties Mr. Heatherbloom
had, for a brief interval, thrust upon him. Betty Dalrymple, however,
had ceased to observe him; he, the others, no longer existed for her.
She saw only Mr. Heatherbloom now; what he said, she knew he meant; she
realized with an odd thrill of mingled admiration and pain that even she
could not cause him to change his mind. He would "stick to his job",
because he had said he would.

"I'm interrupting, I fear," she said, a feeling of strange humility
sweeping over her. "When is your day's work done?"

"About six, I expect."

"The governor gives a ball for me to-night," she said.

"Excellent. All the elite of the port will be there, and," with slow
meditative accent, "I can imagine how you'll look!"

"Can you?" she asked, bending somewhat nearer.

"Yes." His gaze was straight ahead.

The white glove stole toward the black hand. "Why don't you come?"

"I?" He stared.

"Yes; the governor has sent you an invitation. He thinks you a
secret-service officer."

Mr. Heatherbloom continued to look at her; then he glanced toward the
boat. Suddenly his hand closed; he hardly realized the white glove was
in it. "I'll do it, Betty," he exclaimed. "That is, if I can. And--there
may be a way. Yes; there will be."

"You mean, you may be able to rent them?" With a sparkle in her glance.

"Exactly," he answered gaily, recklessly.

Both laughed. Then her expression changed; she suppressed an
exclamation, but gently withdrew her hand.

"How many dances will you give me, Betty?" He had not even noticed that
he had hurt her; his voice was low and eager.

"Ask and see," she said merrily, and went. But outside the shed, she
stretched her crushed fingers; he was very strong; he had spoiled a new
pair of gloves; she did not, however, seem greatly to mind. As for Mr.
Heatherbloom, for the balance of the day he plunged into his task with
the energy of an Antaeus.

* * * * *

Sir Charles regarded rather curiously that night one of his guests who
arrived late. Mr. Heatherbloom's evening garments were not a Poole fit,
and his white gloves, though white enough, had obviously been used and
cleaned often. But the host observed, also, that Mr. Heatherbloom held
himself well, said just the right thi