"What do you think, sir?" he said, and waved his hand. "You are right," I replied in a low tone. "You are certainly right. As for your _San Giorgio_," I smiled, "I'm afraid, Mr. Carville, you are a cleverer man than I thought you!" "Come down and have a smoke," he said. "I've some letters to see to." We descended the companion-way and crossed a large cabin with berths all round. Mr. Carville selected a Yale key from his bunch and opened his door. A young man in a soiled serge suit came out of the next room with some letters. "Ah!" said Mr. Carville, hanging up his Derby hat. "How's things, mister?" and he took the letters. The young man addressed as mister made several incoherent remarks of a technical nature, and with a glance in my direction withdrew. "Sit down," said Mr. Carville, shutting the door. "You'll excuse me for a minute?" I sat down on a red plush settee while my host settled into a wicker easy chair by a small desk. The room by our computation would be small, yet I perceived that Mr. Carville had within reach of his hand almost every convenience of civilization. At his elbow were a telephone and a speaking tube; just above him an electric fan. Electric lights were placed all over the room. His bed lay below the port-holes and a wash-basin of polished mahogany was folded up beside the bed. On the table were cigars and whisky. And between the bed and the wardrobe, on four shelves, were ranged some two hundred volumes; even for a landsman a respectable library. He sat for some moments reading his letters with patient attention, pinching his lower lip between thumb and finger. My estimate of him had undergone several changes since leaving the Battery; since leaving deck, even. I felt somehow that this quiet, sedate person was no longer apologetic in his attitude towards me. Here he was master, and a subtle alteration of his demeanour indicated this to me. He sat there, as I watched him, solid and secure by inalienable right of succession, a son of that stern, imaginative adventurer, his father; a son, moreover, of that sea which he served from year to year. I looked up at the photograph of his wife which he had mentioned, a photograph set in silver. The soft shadows of the platinotype suited Mrs. Carville. Evidently this had been taken about the time of her marriage; the fine modelling of her face and the poise of her head were instinct with youth. In her eyes I fancied something of the mild expression with which she accompanied her remark, "He is a good man." On either side of the silver frame were small pictures of the boys. Mr. Carville put the two letters in a wire clip and offered me a cigar.