He stuck her revolvers in his trousers pockets, so that the butts protruded, and leaned against the door, folding his arms and smiling. His smile was introspective, and was not charming; and when he spoke again he did not bother to infuse any mellowness into his voice. “Well, well!” he said. “So this is the immaculate Miss Holm! Forgive my surprise, but one hardly expects to find the young ladies of the aristocracy behaving like this.” “As one hardly expects to find Sir John Bittle in such company and such circumstances,” she retorted. He shook his head. “There does happen to be a Sir John Bittle, but I am not he. I assumed his knighthood for the edification of Baycombe; and now that we have both said good-bye to Baycombe I don’t mind being plain John Bittle again.” “I’m delighted to hear,” said Patricia scathingly, “that you’re resigned to your plainness.” She wasn’t letting Bittle think that he was getting away with anything, though in fact she was afraid for the first time in her life. He was master of the situation, and he knew it; and her only hope for the moment lay in bluffing him that she knew better. “I trust you will also become resigned to it,” he returned smoothly—“otherwise your married life will not be happy. You understand? My offer still holds good, which I think is very generous of me, though I’m afraid you have no choice. In less than an hour we shall be at sea, and this ship is under my command. I can only say that I’m very much obliged to you for turning up just when I feared I had lost you.” “You’re assuming a lot,” said the girl coolly. His fixed smile did not alter. “As a business man, I have no time to waste beating about the bush. You will marry me now, and there’s an end to it. Maggs—the captain—can perform the ceremony quite legally. Incidentally, you should be grateful for my intervention. If I were not here—well, Maggs is a vindictive man, and I think he will bear you malice for the way you’ve just treated him. But I shall be able to protect you from the vengeance of Maggs, and in return for my kindness I shall expect you to be a good wife to me.” Patricia’s lip curled. “My good man,” she said, “I’d die first.” “You won’t,” said Bittle mildly, and something in the cold certainty of his tone froze her like a bitter wind. There was a Burberry thrown across the chair beside her, and she picked it up and slipped into it, trying to invest her movements with an insulting unconcern, ignoring his very existence. “I was just leaving my cabin as you shepherded Maggs into the one next door,” Bittle explained, gloating. “I guessed you would try to interview me next, but I felt that if I let things go according to your plans you would have me at a disadvantage—a position which could only prejudice me for ever after in my _rôle_ of your lord and master. A man should never give his chosen mate a chance to despise him.”