as they say.

I accused her at the time of a priggish, unnatural craving for things
of the intellect. All my excuse was that at a certain time of her
life she took a sudden turn for reading and setting queer new values
on things. But she was always a sportswoman, a woman of the open
air, and--here's the point--always knowledgeable with animals and
always beloved by them, but always (as it seemed to me) inclined to
be severe and disciplinary. To a lean pack she was Diana; they
fawned behind her for no pay but hope of her word to let slip.
But she would beat them off the piled platter, and from a fed lap-dog
she could scarcely restrain her hands. If you think this hasn't to
do with the story, I can only assure you that it has.

One thing more--She had met Foe; for the first time at a
luncheon-party in my rooms at Cambridge, in May Week; a second time,
it may be, at a May Week ball--but that wouldn't count, for she
danced divinely and Foe couldn't compete for nuts. She may have met
him once or twice afterwards, in London. It's not likely.

Anyhow (as she has told me since) she recognised him at once when he
turned up on the _Emania_.

She and her mother were bound out to visit some friends at
Washington, thence to fare South and stay a while with a cousin who
held the old homestead in which her mother retained some sort of
dower share.

Thus she recognised Foe as soon as he appeared on deck.

But he did not appear on deck until the _Emania_ was well out from
Queenstown; having made sure that Farrell didn't bolt there.
The two--need I tell it?--had not taken passage in collusion.
Farrell was escaping, Foe on his trail. But Foe had no idea of any
dramatic surprise on board. Having made sure of his man, he just
took a remnant first-class berth at the last moment, turned in, and
went to sleep.

In all their commerce (you will have begun to remark) Foe and Farrell
were apt to yield, at intervals, to an abandonment of weariness, but
so that they alternated, the exhaustion of one seeming ever to double
the other's fever. Foe sought his bunk and lay there like a log.
Farrell, after the first shock of reading his pursuer's name in the
Passengers' Book--where it sprang to his eyes fair and square--fell
to haunting the passage-way, low down in the vessel, on which one
dreadful door refused to open. His terror of it so preoccupied him
that he forgot to feel sea-sick. But the steward of those nether
regions marked