n's and her own
with equal clearness.

The sound of voices from a neighboring cabin, followed by the noise
of unskillful footsteps stumbling up a companion ladder, warned them
that they were not alone. Mr. Manby appeared on deck with great
noise and circumstance, skating, struggling, clutching at impossible
supports, being much hampered by a camp stool and a sketching block
which he carried, and his own legs, which seemed hardly equal to
carrying him. Durant had recognized in the little artist a familiar
type. A small, nervous man, attired in the usual threadbare gray
trousers, the usual seedy velveteen coat and slouch hat, with a
great deal of grizzled hair tumbling in the usual disorder about his
peaked and peevish face. Durant sprang forward and helped this
pitiful figure to find its legs; not with purely benevolent
intentions, he settled it and its belongings in a secure (and
remote) position amidships.

"Glad to see you back again!" Frida sang out.

Mr. Manby screwed up his eyes, put his head very much on one side,
and peered into the wild face of Nature with a pale, propitiatory
smile.

"Yes, yes; I mustn't neglect my opportunities. Every minute of this
weather is invaluable."

"It strikes me," said Frida, as Durant established himself beside
her again, "that it's you artists whose devotion to Nature
is--well--not altogether disinterested."

"Manby's affection seems to be pretty sincere; it stands the test of
seasickness."

"Oh, Mr. Manby doesn't really care very much for nature or for art
either."

"What does he try to paint pictures for, then?"

"He tries to paint them for a living, for himself and the little
girls." And Frida looked tenderly at Mr. Manby as she spoke.

At that moment Durant hated Mr. Manby with a deadly hatred. He had
gone so far as to find a malignant satisfaction in the thought that
Mr. Manby's pictures were bad, when he remembered that Frida had a
weakness for bad pictures. Art did not appeal to Frida. She talked
about Paris and Florence and Rome without a word of the Louvre or
the Uffizi Gallery or the Vatican. She didn't care a rap about
Raphael or Rubens, but she hampered herself with Manbys.

"Is there a Mrs. Manby?" he asked gloomily.

"No. Mrs. Manby died last year."

"H'mph! Poor devil! Lucky for her, though."

Frida ignored the implication. "To go back to the point we were
discussing. If you were honest you'd own that you only care for
nature because you can make