Mr. Tombey and Miss Augusta Smithers were leaning together over the bulwarks and watching the phosphorescent foam go flashing past. Mr. Tombey was nervous and ill at ease; Miss Smithers very much at ease, and reflecting that her companion’s moustachios would very well become a villain in a novel. Mr. Tombey looked at the star-spangled sky, on which the Southern Cross hung low, and he looked at the phosphorescent sea; but from neither did inspiration come. Inspiration is from within, and not from without. At last, however, he made a gallant and a desperate effort. “Miss Smithers,” he said in a voice trembling with agitation. “Yes, Mr. Tombey,” answered Augusta, quietly; “what is it?” “Miss Smithers,” he went on—“Miss Augusta, I don’t know what you will think of me, but I must tell you, I can’t keep it any longer, I love you!” Augusta fairly jumped. Mr. Tombey had been very, even markedly, polite, and she, not being a fool, had seen that he admired her; but she had never expected this, and the suddenness with which the shot was fired was somewhat bewildering. “Why, Mr. Tombey,” she said in a surprised voice, “you have only known me for a little more than a fortnight.” “I fell in love with you when I had only known you for an hour,” he answered with evident sincerity. “Please listen to me. I know I am not worthy of you! But I do love you so very dearly, and I would make you a good husband; indeed I would, I am well off; though, of course that is nothing; and if you don’t like New Zealand, I would give it up and go to live in England. Do you think that you can take me? If you only knew how dearly I love you, I am sure you would.”