Clovelly joined us, and for the first time--if I had not been so egotistical it had appeared to me before--I guessed that his somewhat professional interest in Belle Treherne had developed into a very personal thing. And with that thought came also the conception of what a powerful antagonist he would be. For it improves some men to wear glasses; and Clovelly had a delightful, wheedling tongue. It was allusive, contradictory (a thing pleasing to women), respectful yet playful, bold yet reverential. Many a time I have longed for Clovelly’s tongue. Unfortunately for me, I learned some of his methods without his art; and of this I am occasionally reminded at this day. A man like Clovelly is dangerous as a rival when he is not in earnest; when he IS in earnest, it becomes a lonely time for the other man--unless the girl is perverse. I left the two together, and moved about the deck, trying to think closely about Roscoe’s case, and to drive Clovelly’s invasion from my mind. I succeeded, and was only roused by Mrs. Falchion’s voice beside me. “Does he suffer much?” she murmured. When answered, she asked nervously how he looked--it was impossible that she should consider misery without shrinking. I told her that he was only flushed and haggard as yet and that he was little wasted. A thought flashed to her face. She was about to speak, but paused. After a moment, however, she remarked evenly: “He is likely to be delirious?” “It is probable,” I replied. Her eyes were fixed on the search-light. The look in them was inscrutable. She continued quietly: “I will go and see him, if you will let me. Justine will go with me.” “Not now,” I replied. “He is sleeping. To-morrow, if you will.” I did not think it necessary to tell her that Justine was at that moment watching beside him. We walked the deck together in silence. “I wonder,” she said, “that you care to walk with me. Please do not make the matter a burden.” She did not say this with any invitation to courteous protest on my part, but rather with a cold frankness--for which, I confess, I always admired her. I said now: “Mrs. Falchion, you have suggested what might easily be possible in the circumstances, but I candidly admit that I have never yet found your presence disagreeable; and I suppose that is a comment upon my weakness. Though, to speak again with absolute truth, I think I do not like you at this present.” “Yes, I fancy I can understand that,” she said. “I can understand how, for instance, one might feel a just and great resentment, and have in one’s hand the instrument of punishment, and yet withhold one’s hand and protect where one should injure.” At this moment these words had no particular significance to me, but there chanced a time when they came home with great force. I think, indeed, that she was speaking more to herself than to me. Suddenly she turned to me.