is man's life, and she would always be happy because he would
always be needing her.

"You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy," she said. "I'll fetch it."

She made the companion without touching stay or rail, which
necessitated a fine sense of balance, for there was a growing
vigour to the wind and a corresponding lift to the roll of the sea.
The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed
flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in
silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould.

Silk. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen
pairs of silk stockings. She did not question or analyze the
craving; she took the plunge joyously. It was the first expression
of the mother's blood. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion;
it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have
her bit of silk.

McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished
below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who
had closed his eyes. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he
mused. Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the
habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become
the normal role, hers to give and his to receive. He wondered if
the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic
lottery called marriage. Probably hadn't. As for that, what man
ever had?

"That's a remarkable young woman," he offered, merely to note what
effect it would have.

Spurlock looked up. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink
this keen-eyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly,
the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. He was continually
dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had
elected to play. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. "Did you
ever see the like of her?"

"No," answered McClintock, gravely. "I wonder how she picked up
Kanaka? On her island they don't talk Kanaka lingo."

Her island! How well he knew it, thought Spurlock, for all he
lacked the name and whereabouts! Suddenly a new thought arose and
buffeted him. How little he knew about Ruth--the background from
which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that
her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and
that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an
aunt in the States. But what did he know beyond these facts?
Nothing, clearly. Oh,