Bill broke off artistically, and I recalled to myself a saying of an American sage, "Those that go down to the sea in ships see the works of the Lord, but those that go down to the sea in cutters see hell." "He went ashore yesterday," said Bill, resuming his narrative and the sculls, "and came aboard with a pig's face and a pot of jam that he got at the pub, and I say!--that pig's face!--Phew! My aunt!" "'Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been,'" quoted Lady Derryclare. Philippa shuddered aloud. "But he's going to come level to-day," went on Bill; "he's standing us all lunch at the Ecclestown Hotel, Ronnie's skipper and all. He spent a good half-hour writing out a menu, and Ronnie took it over last night. We had tea on board Ronnie's ship, you know." We said we knew all about the tea-party and the guests. "Oh, you do, do you?" said Bill; "then you know a good deal! Chichester can tell you a bit more about the dark one if you like to ask him!" "He seems to have outgrown his fancy for fair people," I said. Philippa put her nose in the air. "He's gorgeously dressed for the occasion," continued Bill. "More than you are!" said his mother. "Oh, my one don't care. No more does Ronnie's. What they enjoyed was the engine-room." "It seems to me," said Lady Derryclare to Philippa, "that we are rather superfluous to this entertainment." Chichester stood at the gangway and helped the ladies on to the narrow, hog-backed deck of the _Sheila_. He was indeed beautifully dressed, but to the critical eye it seemed that the spotless grey flannel suit hung a shade easier, and that the line of his cheek was less freshly rounded. His nose had warmed to a healthful scarlet, but his eye was cold, and distinctly bleak. He was silent, not, it was obvious to me, because he had nothing to say, but because he might have more to say than would be convenient. In all senses save the literal one he suggested the simple phrase, "Fed up." I felt for him. As I saw the grim deck-bosses on which we might have to sit, and the dark mouth of the cabin in which we might have to eat, and tripped over a rope, and grasped at the boom, which yielded instead of supporting me, I thought with a lover's ardour of the superiority--whether as means of progression or as toy--of the little car, tucked away in the Eyries publican's back-yard, where neither chick nor child would find her. "You ought to have come with us, Yeates," said Derryclare, emerging from the companion-hatch with a fishing-line in his hand. "Great sport! we got a hundred and fifty yesterday--beats trout-fishing! Doesn't it, Chichester?" Chichester smiled sarcastically and looked at his watch.