“Gad!” he said to himself, “it really is!” He removed the glass, and giving it a more careful readjustment, stared again. “Gad!” said he, “it is none other! A devilish fine girl! She couldn’t be beat in all London for looks or wits. What does it mean? Given that cad Anderson the slip, eh? Discriminating, begad!” Lieutenant Shafto had a definite contempt for Anderson, as a man who sat by the fire when he might have been fighting. If a man fought well or dressed well, Shafto could respect him. Anderson did neither. He was therefore easily placed. “There’s something rich behind this,” went on the lieutenant to himself. “But, gad! there is a savour to this voyage, after all. There’s a pair of bright eyes—devilish bright eyes—to dress for!” He hitched his sword to a more gallant angle as he stepped primly down the deck. He gave the flow of his coat an airy curve. He would have felt of his queue had he dared, to assure himself it was dressed to a nicety. He glanced with complaisance at his correct and entirely spotless ruffles. And by this he was come to mademoiselle’s side, where he stood, bowing low, his cap held very precisely across his breast. “The honour, mademoiselle! Ah, the marvel of it!” he murmured. “The ship is transfigured. I was but now anathematizing it as a most especial hell: I looked up, and it had become a paradise—a paradise of one fair spirit!” Yvonne looked at him with searching eyes as he delivered this fantasia, then a trifle imperiously gave him her hand to kiss. She had spoken passingly with him twice or thrice before, at Father Fafard’s. She understood him—read him through: a man absurd, but never contemptible; to be quite heartily disliked, yet wholly trusted; to be laughed at, yet discreetly; vain, indomitable, a fighter and a fop; living for the field and the hair-dresser. Here was a man whom she would use, yet respect him the while. “You do nobly, monsieur,” she said, with a faint, enigmatic smile, “to thus keep the light of courtly custom burning clear, even in our darknesses.” “There can be no darkness where your face shines, mademoiselle,” he cried, delighted not less with himself than with her. It was a little obvious, but she accepted it graciously with a look, and he went on: “I beg that you will let me place my cabin at your disposal during the voyage. You will find it narrow, but roomy enough to accommodate you and your maid.” Here Captain Eliphalet interfered. “I claim the privilege, mademoiselle,” said he, with some vexation in his tones, “of giving you the captain’s cabin, which is by all odds the most commodious place on the ship—the _only_ place at all suitable for you.” “The captain is right,” said Shafto reluctantly. “His cabin is the more comfortable; and I beg him to share mine.”