‘Why don’t you answer? Curse it, d’you think it’s your “duty,”’ with a sneer, ‘to stand there like a mummy? By God, a mummy’s a fool to you!’ The man’s voice rose again in a harsh crescendo. Dick Denver, leaning against the ship’s side, involuntarily took his cigar from his lips, and ground his teeth. ‘I judge domestic felicity has its shady side,’ he muttered, with a soul-satisfying drawl; ‘thank the Almighty for His infinite mercies!’--presumably referring to his own unencumbered condition. ‘Poor little woman, she looked very sweet at dinner. Gosh! _I_ was the blackguard adventurer!’ He laughed softly, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘What an everlasting brute the fellow is; that unfortunate woman must have considerable of a bad time. Ah! Well,--no affair of yours, Dick, my son.’ He turned, and from over the ship’s side watched the rings of smoke curling away from his cigar. A rustle as of silken garments caught his ear, and over his shoulder he saw a woman’s figure coming from the hatchway. Standing back in shadow, he watched her move listlessly towards a long deck chair, half-way between him and the hatch. He could catch a long-drawn sigh, half a sob, and see the shiver of the slight form as she sank into it. A whisper came floating along the deck to where he stood. ‘God! How I hate him! How I hate him! How long? How long?’ Dick Denver, vagabond, adventurer, gambler--what you will--was a man with a soft heart, and a curious hardened inability to witness distress without a desire to offer his help, which, owing to his manner of life, was generally found to be worse than useless. Watching her as she lay with profile half-turned from him, her chin resting dejectedly in her hand, the fair hair clustering low on her white forehead, and a pitiful droop in the corner of the little mouth,--he was conscious of a desire, gradually concentrating in the toe of his boot, to kick the originator of so much unhappiness. As he leant forward for a better look, a puff of wind caught the brim of his large felt hat, and blew it along the deck to the chair where she was sitting. Glad of the excuse, he moved towards her. She turned her head, and a gleam from the moon, half-hidden in the hurrying clouds, lit up a sweet pale face with deep grey eyes. A word of apology, and he bent forward to pick up his hat, catching a glimpse, as he did so, of a tear on her cheek. A great compassion smote his vagabond heart. He straightened himself and said: ‘Aren’t you cold, sitting up here so late?’ A soft musical voice was one of Mr Denver’s chief accomplishments; it was useful at poker, and was found attractive even by victims.