‘Right you are!’ exclaimed Mr. Wedmold, with an accent of victorious elation; ‘what about the mark of the foot?’ ‘What d’ye mean?’ said Mr. Clack. ‘“It happened one day about noon,” I know the passage by heart,’ said Mr. Wedmold, ‘“it happened one day about noon,” says Robinson Crusoe, “going towards my boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man’s naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand.”’ ‘Well!’ said Mr. Clack. ‘Well,’ said Mr. Wedmold, ‘what are we to suppose? That the savage who made that mark with his foot had a wooden leg? Only think of a single imprint! Even two would have been unpardonable; there should have been a whole flight of them. Could you walk upon sand capable of receiving the imprint of your foot and stamp one impress only? Impossible!’ ‘In all probability,’ said Mr. Clack, ‘the savage landed upon some flat rocks which were skirted by sand; and in his walk he happened to put his foot upon the sand once only, and hence Robinson Crusoe saw but a single imprint.’ ‘He evidently does not intend that Mr. Wedmold shall drink at his expense,’ said Alice. The two gentlemen continued to argue. It was impossible to read aloud. It was impossible indeed not to listen to them, for they often raised their voices so high that people at the other end of the deck turned in their chairs to view them. The discussion was ended at last--so far at least as Alice and I were concerned--by Mr. Clack telling Mr. Wedmold that he did not believe he had quoted correctly from the story. On this they both rose and walked away to seek through the ship for a copy of ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ There was now peace at our end of the vessel, and opening the book afresh I began to read aloud, but before I had read two pages, Alice, with the capricious taste of the invalid, though her manner was never wanting in perfect sweetness and gentleness, stopped me. ‘I do not feel in the humour to listen to that book,’ said she. ‘It is a book for the quietude of the evening, for the lamplight, a book for the open window through which you can see the stars shining. It is not a book for a sunny joyous morning like this. One should not be able to see gay figures moving about, and hear the sound of laughter when one reads it.’ I closed the volume and she talked of the sea and the wonder and beauty of it, and recited some passages from the ‘Ancient Mariner’; but in the midst of her recitation she was seized with a cough that almost convulsed her. I raised her veil that she might breathe easily. She sought to reassure me with a smile during the convulsions of her cough, but it shook her to the heart. I seemed to hear death in the rattle of that terrible cough. Never before in my presence had she been so suddenly and violently seized. The fit passed and she lowered her veil, breathing quickly, and for some moments she was speechless. Presently I said to her; ‘Has this attack been caused by your coming on deck?’