ling to put your life in my hands day after day is no
guarantee of my skill as a rower, remember."

"Oh, skittles!" said Mab irrelevantly.

And Seton, meeting Merefleet's eyes, shrugged his shoulders as if
disclaiming all further responsibility.

Mab leant forward.

"You'd better come, Mr. Merefleet," she said in a motherly tone. "It'll
be a degree more lively than mooning around by yourself."

And Merefleet yielded, touched by something indescribable in the
beautiful, glowing eyes that were lifted to his. Apparently she wanted
him to go, and it seemed to him too small a thing to refuse. Perhaps,
also, he consulted his own inclination.

Seton dropped his distant manner after a time. Nevertheless the
impression of being under the young man's close observation lingered with
Merefleet, and Mab herself seemed to feel a strain. She grew almost
silent till lunch was over, and then, recovering, she entered into a
sprightly conversation with Merefleet.

They went down to the shore shortly after, and embarked in Quiller's
boat. Mab sat in the stern under a scarlet sunshade and talked gaily to
her two companions. She was greatly amused when Merefleet insisted upon
doing his share of the work.

"I love to see you doing the galley-slave," she said. "I know you hate
it, you poor old Bear."

But Merefleet did not hate his work. He sat facing her throughout the
afternoon, gazing to his heart's content on the perfect picture before
him. He wore his hands to blisters, and the sun beat mercilessly down
upon him. But he felt neither weariness nor impatience, neither regret
nor surliness.

A magic touch had started the life in his veins; the revelation of a
wandering searchlight had transformed his sordid world into a palace of
delight. He accepted the fact without question. He had no wish to go
either forward or backward.

The blue sea and the blue sky, and the distant, shining shore. These were
what he had often longed for in the rush and tumult of a great, unresting
city. But in the foreground of his picture, beyond desire and more
marvellous than imagination, was the face of the loveliest woman he had
ever seen.

CHAPTER VII

There was no wandering alone on the quay for Merefleet that night. It was
very warm and he sat on the terrace with his American friend. Far away
over at New Silverstrand, a band was playing, and the music came floating
across the harbour with the silvery sweetness which water imparts. The