The very age of the _Jade_ was a charm to him. Only her spine and ribs and plates were of steel--the rest a priceless woodwork that had come into its real beauty under the endlessly wearing hands of man. There seemed a grain and maturity to the inner parts, as if the strain and roughing of the seas had brought out the real enduring heart of the excellent fabric. The rose-wood side-board of his upper berth, for instance, placed for the full light from the port to fall upon it, was worth the price of the passage--sixteen inches wide, a full inch and one-half thick, worn to a soft lustre as if the human hands had hallowed it, and giving back to the touch the same answer from the years that a vine brings to stone-work and the bouquet to wine.... The _Jade_ had known good care and answered. Floors, even of the cabins, were hollowed from much stoning; the hinges held and ferried their burdens in silence, and the old locks moved with soft contented clicks, the wards running in new oil. A city man who had long dreamed of a country garden; or indeed, Bellair was a city man who had long dreamed of a full-rigged ship to fulfil in part the romance of his soul. The _Jade_ had a dear inner life for him, satisfied him with her lines, her breathing, settling and repose. A fine hunger began to animate the length and breadth of the man. There was a half hour of straight, clear thinking, of the kind that plumbs the outlook with the in, and mainly comes unawares. Bessie Brealt, of course, appeared and passed, in all the hardness of her life and the pity of it, but the days that had elapsed since the parting had not changed his unique desire to help her; nor did he lie to himself that he wanted her, too, as a man wants a woman. He loved her in a way, against his will. Possibly the kiss had fixed that. In the solution of the running thoughts, and without subtlety of mingling, was the face on deck, the dark, extraordinary face of Stackhouse. They were a full day at sea, before Bellair was called to sit down before the great cane chair. There was a warm land wind; November already forgotten. The _Jade_ had gathered up her skirts and was swinging along with a low music of her own. Stackhouse waddled back to his chair from the land-rail, a remarkable mass of crumpled silks, the canes marked in the general effusion of dampness along his back and legs, the silks caught up behind by a system of wrinkles and imprints, and one hitched pantaloon revealing the familiar muff of fur above the selvage of his fallen sock. Now Stackhouse was preparing to enter. Bellair was caught in the tension. The process, while prodigious, was not without its delicate parts. One hand was irrevocably occupied with a long-stemmed China pipe, a warm creamy vase, already admired by Bellair. Breath came in puffs and pantings of fragrant tobacco, but there were gurglings and strange stoppages of air that complained from deeper passages.