hat much. And that is why so
many men are afraid of them.

Mr. Smith I believe was afraid of his daughter's quietness though of
course he interpreted it in his own way.

He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and bend over the
reclining girl, wondering what there was behind the lost gaze under the
darkened eyelids in the still eyes. He would look and look and then he
would say, whisper rather, it didn't take much for his voice to drop to a
mere breath--he would declare, transferring his faded stare to the
horizon, that he would never rest till he had "got her away from that
man."

"You don't know what you are saying, papa."

She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these two
men's antagonism around her person which was the cause of her languid
attitudes. For as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her.

As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the deck.
The strain was making him restless. He couldn't sit still anywhere. He
had tried shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good. He
would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up and down that poop till
he felt ready to drop, without being able to wear down the agitation of
his soul, generous indeed, but weighted by its envelope of blood and
muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain creating precise images and
everlastingly speculating, speculating--looking out for signs, watching
for symptoms.

And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the
footsteps on the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful,
hopelessly gentle voice that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn't
she given herself to that man while he was locked up.

"Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward to,
but my daughter. And then when they let me out at last I find her
gone--for it amounts to this. Sold. Because you've sold yourself; you
know you have."

With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the wind-
eddies of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he seemed to be
addressing the universe across her reclining form. She would protest
sometimes.

"I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are only tormenting me,
and tormenting yourself."

"Yes, I am tormented enough," he admitted meaningly. But it was not
talking about it that tormented him. It was thinking of it. And to sit
and look at it was worse for him than it