r soft eyes fixed
upon the jewelled bay. "She has an arresting face."

"You have never seen her," said Saltash carelessly, flicking
cigarette-ash overboard. "She has the sort of face that the old Italians
worshipped and some of the moderns too. You have seen it in their
pictures."

Sheila's brows were drawn. "I have seen her--somehow--dressed as a boy,"
she said. "Could it have been a picture?"

"Yes. One of Spentoli's. I've got a print somewhere. It's called, 'The
Victim'--a lad with a face like Larpent's daughter, fighting a leopard."

Saltash spoke with easy conviction, his restless eyes flashing to and
fro, often glancing but never resting upon the girl beside him. "That's
what you're thinking of. It's an unsatisfactory sort of picture. One
wonders which is 'The Victim.' But that is Spentoli all over. He always
leaves one wondering."

"I know the thing you mean." Sheila nodded meditatively. "Yes, she
is--rather like that. The boy was 'The Victim' of course." She turned
towards him suddenly with the words. "You can't possibly doubt that. The
brute's teeth are almost in his throat. I think it's a horrible picture
myself."

Saltash laughed. "A deliverer arrives sometimes," he remarked, "even in
the last, most awful moment of all. Have you never said to yourself how
seldom the thing we really expect comes to pass?"

Sheila's lips parted with a touch of scorn. "Perhaps it is safer not to
expect," she said.

"Perhaps," agreed Saltash, with his quick grimace. "I learnt that lesson
a long time ago. There are so many slips--especially when the cup is
full." He added inconsequently, "And even if it gets there, the wine is
sour as often as not when you come to drink."

"I can quite believe it," said the girl, and looked out once more over
the wreathing flowers to the rippling waters of the bay.

Her mouth took a firm line, and Saltash, glancing at her, began to laugh.
"Do you know, Miss Melrose, it's rather curious, but you remind me of
Spentoli too in some ways? I don't know if you and Miss Larpent possess
the same characteristics, but I imagine you might develop them, given the
same conditions."

Sheila stiffened at the words. "I am sure you are quite wrong," she said
coldly. "Captain Larpent's daughter is quite obviously a child of
impulse. I--am not."

"I think you would be impulsive enough to fight the leopard if he came
your way," contended Saltash with idle insistence. "Or perhaps you would
charm him. I