“I fear,” I replied, “that it is impossible for me to assist you to the privileges of a first-class passenger. You see, I am an officer of the ship. But still I can help you. You shall leave this cabin to-night. I will arrange so that you may transfer yourself to one in the first-class section.... No, not a word; it must be as I wish in this. You are ill; I can do you that kindness at least, and then, by right, you can attend the ball, and, after it, your being among the first-class passengers can make little difference; for you will have met and spoken then, either to peace or otherwise.” I had very grave doubts of any reconciliation; the substance of my notable conversation with Mrs. Falchion was so prominent in my mind. I feared she would only reproduce the case of Anson and his wife. I was also afraid of a possible scene--which showed that I was not yet able to judge of her resources. After a time, in which we sat silent, I said to Madras: “But suppose she should be frightened?--should--should make a scene?” He raised himself to a sitting posture. “I feel better,” he said. Then, answering my question: “You do not know her quite. She will not stir a muscle. She has nerve. I have seen her in positions of great peril and trial. She is not emotional, though I truly think she will wake one day and find her heart all fire but not for me. Still, I say that all will be quite comfortable, so far as any demonstration on her part is concerned. She will not be melodramatic, I do assure you.” “And the disguise--your dress?” inquired I. He rose from the berth slowly, and, opening a portmanteau, drew from it a cloth of white and red, fringed with gold. It was of beautiful texture, and made into the form of a toga or mantle. He said: “I was a seller of such stuffs in Colombo, and these I brought with me, because I could not dispose of them without sacrifice when I left hurriedly. I have made them into a mantle. I could go as--a noble Roman, perhaps!” Then a slight, ironical smile crossed his lips, and he stretched out his thin but shapely arms, as if in derision of himself. “You will go as Menelaus the Greek,” said I. “I as Menelaus the Greek?” The smile became a little grim. “Yes, as Menelaus; and I will go as Paris.” I doubt not that my voice showed a good deal of self-scorn at the moment; but there was a kind of luxury in self-abasement before him. “Your wife, I know, intends to go as Helen of Troy. It is all mumming. Let it stand so, as Menelaus and Helen and Paris before there was any Trojan war, and as if there never could be any--as if Paris went back discomfited, and the other two were reconciled.” His voice was low and broken. “I know you exaggerate matters, and condemn yourself beyond reason,” he replied. “I will do as you say. But, Dr. Marmion, it will not be all mumming, as you shall see.”