yet earnest. If it was not approval, it was not
condemnation; but it might have been slightly ironical, and that annoyed
me. It seemed impossible for him--and it was so always, I believe--to
get out of his mind the thought of the man he had rescued on No Man's
Sea. I am sure it jarred upon him that the band foolishly played a
welcome when Mrs. Falchion stepped on the deck. As I delivered Miss
Treherne into the hands of her father, who was anxiously awaiting us,
Hungerford said in my ear: "A tragedy queen, Marmion." He said it so
distinctly that Mrs. Falchion heard it, and she gave him a searching
look. Their eyes met and warred for a moment, and then he added: "I
remember! Yes, I can respect the bravery of a woman whom I do not like."

"And this is to-morrow," she said, "and a man may change his mind, and
that may be fate--or a woman's whim." She bowed, turned away, and went
below, evidently disliking the reception she had had, and anxious to
escape inquiries and congratulations. Nor did she appear again until the
'Fulvia' got under way about six o'clock in the evening. As we moved out
of the harbour we passed close to the 'Porcupine' and saw its officers
grouped on the deck, waving adieus to some one on our deck, whom I
guessed, of course, to be Galt Roscoe.

At this time Mrs. Falchion was standing near me. "For whom is that
demonstration?" she said.

"For one of her officers, who is a passenger by the 'Fulvia'," I
replied. "You remember we passed the 'Porcupine' in the Indian Ocean?"

"Yes, I know that very well," she said, with a shade of meaning.
"But"--here I thought her voice had a touch of breathlessness--"but who
is the officer? I mean, what is his name?"

"He stands in the group near the door of the captain's cabin, there. His
name is Galt Roscoe, I think."

A slight exclamation escaped her. There was a chilly smile on her lips,
and her eyes sought the group until it rested on Galt Roscoe. In a
moment she said "You have met him?"

"In the cemetery this morning, for the first time."

"Everybody seems to have had business this morning at the cemetery.
Justine Caron spent hours there. To me it is so foolish, heaping up a
mound, and erecting a tombstone over--what?--a dead thing, which, if one
could see it, would be dreadful."

"You would prefer complete absorption--as of the ocean?" I brutally
retorted.

She appeared not to notice the innuendo. "Yes, what is gone is gone.
Graves are idolatry. Gravesto