“I know, dear. It’s so like you. It’s noble of you. But you could do something for the people at home: for the poor. You could teach them. We could teach them together. But oh, don’t let’s go to Darien, Tom. We shall be separated. Tom, I couldn’t bear to be alone in the ship. And there may be fighting.” “Come, come, Livy,” said Stukeley. He was nettled at what he judged to be her damned female pigheadedness, yet anxious to make his indignation appear moral. That is the common custom of the wicked, to the world’s misfortune. “Come, come,” he said, “you mustn’t talk in that way. We’re going to liberate the Indians. Eh? To show them what British Freedom means. Eh? We mustn’t think of ourselves, and our little aches and pains. We must think of the world.” He himself was ever ready to think of the world, or the flesh, or the devil, or all three. “We must think of the world, Livy. And if we should succeed. I think you would be proud of me, Livy.” “I should be, Tom, dear. Very, very proud. But oh, Tom, do let us go home. We should be so happy there again. Here, we can’t get away from strangers. I can’t live among these people. They’re dreadful. And Darien, Tom. It’s a lawless place, full of the most terrible men.” “Oh, they’re all right,” he answered. “They’re all right. And I shall be with you, my dear child. We must go to Darien, Livy. My honour’s pledged. I can’t draw back in honour. They would call me a coward. They’d say I was afraid. Besides, I can’t very well pay our way home. And I can’t borrow. You do realize my position, Livy? We must go on.” “Oh, Tom,” said Olivia, crying now, in spite of brave efforts. “I didn’t think--I thought you’d take me when I begged you. We might be home in three weeks. Oh, Tom, do.” She clung to him, looking up at him, smiling appeal in spite of tears. Stukeley bit his lips from annoyance, longing to box her ears, to give her, as he phrased it, something to cry for. She thought that he was on the rack between his pledged honour and his love for her. “No, Livy,” he said, parodying Captain Margaret’s manner towards an inferior. “No, Livy, dear. Don’t make it hard for me. We must never draw back from a noble cause, dear.” He thought that this would bring more tears, and force him to be brutal; he was not going to stand there while she snivelled on his shoulder. “A snivelling woman,” he always maintained, “is not a thing to be encouraged.” But to his surprise his answer checked her tears; she had never loved him more than when he placed his honour even above his love for her. “There, Tom,” she said. “Forgive me. I won’t cry any more, dear. My nerves are upset. I won’t ask again, Tom. Of course, we’ll go to Darien. But I wasn’t thoughtless of your honour, Tom. You don’t think that? I wasn’t. I was only fidgety and frightened. Women are so silly. You don’t know how silly.” “There, there,” he said. “There, there. What pretty ears you’ve got, Livy. Why in the world d’you wear earrings with ears like yours?”