“And this is to-morrow,” she said, “and a man may change his mind, and that may be fate--or a woman’s whim.” She bowed, turned away, and went below, evidently disliking the reception she had had, and anxious to escape inquiries and congratulations. Nor did she appear again until the ‘Fulvia’ got under way about six o’clock in the evening. As we moved out of the harbour we passed close to the ‘Porcupine’ and saw its officers grouped on the deck, waving adieus to some one on our deck, whom I guessed, of course, to be Galt Roscoe. At this time Mrs. Falchion was standing near me. “For whom is that demonstration?” she said. “For one of her officers, who is a passenger by the ‘Fulvia’,” I replied. “You remember we passed the ‘Porcupine’ in the Indian Ocean?” “Yes, I know that very well,” she said, with a shade of meaning. “But”--here I thought her voice had a touch of breathlessness--“but who is the officer? I mean, what is his name?” “He stands in the group near the door of the captain’s cabin, there. His name is Galt Roscoe, I think.” A slight exclamation escaped her. There was a chilly smile on her lips, and her eyes sought the group until it rested on Galt Roscoe. In a moment she said “You have met him?” “In the cemetery this morning, for the first time.” “Everybody seems to have had business this morning at the cemetery. Justine Caron spent hours there. To me it is so foolish, heaping up a mound, and erecting a tombstone over--what?--a dead thing, which, if one could see it, would be dreadful.” “You would prefer complete absorption--as of the ocean?” I brutally retorted. She appeared not to notice the innuendo. “Yes, what is gone is gone. Graves are idolatry. Gravestones are ghostly. It is people without imagination who need these things, together with crape and black-edged paper. It is all barbaric ritual. I know you think I am callous, but I cannot help that. For myself, I wish the earth close about me, and level green grass above me, and no one knowing of the place; or else, fire or the sea.” “Mrs. Falchion,” said I, “between us there need be no delicate words. You appear to have neither imagination, nor idolatry, nor remembrances, nor common womanly kindness.” “Indeed!” she said. “Yet you might know me better.” Here she touched my arm with the tips of her fingers, and, in spite of myself, I felt my pulse beat faster. It seemed to me that in her presence, even now, I could not quite trust myself. “Indeed!” she repeated. “And who made you omniscient, Dr. Marmion? You hardly do yourself justice. You hold a secret. You insist on reminding me of the fact. Is that in perfect gallantry? Do you know me altogether, from your knowledge of that one thing? You are vain. Or does the secret wear on you, and--Mr. Hungerford? Was it necessary to seek HIS help in keeping it?”