e boat as she rose and
fell over them. He was thinking, no doubt, of a certain dark beauty,
whose caprices there was no explaining. As for me--well, I had
suddenly developed a sturdy preference for blue eyes.

* * * * *

I may as well confess at once that I was seasick. It came next
morning, ten minutes after I had left my berth--not a violent
sickness, but a faintness and giddiness that made me long for my
berth again. But Mr. Royce would not hear of it. He got me out on deck
and into my chair, with the fresh breeze blowing full in my face.
There was a long line of chairs drawn up there, and from the faces of
most of their occupants, I judged they were far more miserable than I.
At the end of an hour, thanks to this treatment, I felt almost well
again, and could devour with some appetite the luncheon which Mr.
Royce ordered for me.

After a while the doctor came down the line and looked at each of us,
stopping for a moment's chat. The more serious cases were below, and
all that any of us needed was a little encouragement.

"Won't you sit down a minute, doctor?" I asked, when he came to me,
and motioned to Mr. Royce's chair.

"Why, you're not sick!" he protested, laughing, but he dropped into
the vacant place.

"It wasn't about myself I wanted to talk," I said. "How's your other
patient--the one who came aboard last?"

His face sobered in an instant.

"Martigny is his name," he said, "and he's in very bad shape. He must
have been desperately anxious to get back to France. Why, he might
have dropped over dead there on the gang-plank."

"It's a disease of the heart?"

"Yes--far advanced. He can't get well, of course, but he may live on
indefinitely, if he's careful."

"He's still confined to his bed?"

"Oh, yes--he won't leave it during the voyage, if he takes my advice.
He's got to give his heart just as little work as possible, or it'll
throw up the job altogether. He has mighty little margin to go on."

I turned the talk to other things, and in a few moments he went on
along his rounds. But I was not long alone, for I saw Miss Kemball
coming toward me, looking a very Diana, wind-blown and rosy-cheeked.

"So _mal-de-mer_ has laid its hand on you, too, Mr. Lester!" she
cried.

"Only a finger," I said. "But a finger is enough. Won't you take pity
on a poor landsman and talk to him?"

"But that's reversing our positions!" she protested, sitting down,
nevertheless, to my