Clovelly turned and looked at me steadily. “When you consider a patient,” he said, “do you arrange a diagnosis of a type or of a person?--And, by the way, ‘type’ is a priggish word.” “I consider the type in connection with the person.” “Exactly. The person is the thing. That clears up the matter of business and art. But now, as to Miss Treherne: I want to say that, having been admitted to her acquaintance and that of her father, I have thought of them only as friends, and not as ‘characters’ or ‘copy.’” “I beg your pardon, Clovelly,” said I. “I might have known.” “Now, to prove how magnanimous I am, I shall introduce you to Miss Treherne, if you will let me. You’ve met her father, I suppose?” he added, and tossed his cigar overboard. “Yes, I have talked with him. He is a courteous and able man, I should think.” We rose. Presently he continued: “See, Miss Treherne is sitting there with the Tasmanian widow--what is HER name?” “Mrs. Callendar,” I replied. “Blackburn, the Queenslander, is joining them.” “So much the better,” he said. “Come on.” As we passed the music saloon, we paused for an instant to look through the port-hole at a pale-faced girl with big eyes and a wonderful bright red dress, singing “The Angels’ Serenade,” while an excitable bear-leader turned her music for her. Near her stood a lanky girl who adored actors and tenors, and lived in the hope of meeting some of those gentlemen of the footlights, who plough their way so calmly through the hearts of maidens fresh from school. We drew back to go on towards Miss Treherne, when Hungerford touched me on the arm, and said: “I want to see you for a little while, Marmion, if Mr. Clovelly will excuse you.” I saw by Hungerford’s face that he had something of importance to say, and, linking my arm in his, I went with him to his cabin, which was near those of the intermediate passengers. CHAPTER III. A TALE OF NO MAN’S SEA Inside the cabin Hungerford closed the door, gripped me by the arm, and then handed me a cheroot, with the remark: “My pater gave them to me last voyage home. Have kept ‘em in tea.” And then he added, with no appearance of consecutiveness: “Hang the bally ship, anyhow!” I shall not attempt to tone down the crudeness of Hungerford’s language. It contents me to think that the solidity of his character and his worth will appear even through the crust of free-and-easy idioms, as they will certainly be seen in his acts;--he was sound at heart and true as steel. “What is the matter, Hungerford?” I asked lighting the cheroot.