way."

"How chivalrous you are," she said.

"Not at all," I answered, as musically as I could. "Understand me, I am
now putting my head over this partition for the last time. If there is
anything you want, say so now."

"Nothing," she answered.

"There is a candle and matches beside you. If there is anything that you
want in the night, call me instantly. Remember, at any hour I shall be
here. I promise it."

"Good night," she murmured. In a few minutes her soft regular breathing
told me that she was asleep.

I went forward and seated myself in a tar-bucket, with my head against
the mast, to get what sleep I could.

But for some time--why, I do not know--sleep would not come.

The image of Edith Croyden filled my mind. In vain I told myself that
she was a stranger to me: that--beyond her longitude--I knew nothing of
her. In some strange way this girl had seized hold of me and dominated
my senses.

The night was very calm and still, with great stars in a velvet sky. In
the darkness I could hear the water lapping the edge of the raft.

I remained thus in deep thought, sinking further and further into the
tar-bucket. By the time I reached the bottom of it I realized that I was
in love with Edith Croyden.

Then the thought of my wife occurred to me and perplexed me. Our unhappy
marriage had taken place three years before. We brought to one another
youth, wealth and position. Yet our marriage was a failure. My wife--for
what reason I cannot guess--seemed to find my society irksome. In vain I
tried to interest her with narratives of my travels. They seemed--in
some way that I could not divine--to fatigue her. "Leave me for a
little, Harold," she would say (I forgot to mention that my name is
Harold Borus), "I have a pain in my neck." At her own suggestion I had
taken a trip around the world. On my return she urged me to go round
again. I was going round for the third time when the wrecking of the
steamer had interrupted my trip.

On my own part, too, I am free to confess that my wife's attitude had
aroused in me a sense of pique, not to say injustice. I am not in any
way a vain man. Yet her attitude wounded me. I would no sooner begin,
"When I was in the Himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo," than
she would interrupt and say, "Oh, Harold, would you mind going down to
the billiard-room and seeing if I left my cigarettes under the
billiard-table?" When I returned, she was gone.

By agreement we had arr