“If you talk philosophy I'm done,” cried Mr. Chevenix. “Well, I say to you, my boy, Go and see her. She's so far human that she's got a tongue, and likes to wag it, I suppose. I don't say that there's trouble, and I don't say there's not. But there are the makings of it. She's alone, and may be moped. I don't know. You'd better judge for yourself.” Senhouse, trembling from his recent fire, turned away his face. “I don't know that I dare. If she's unhappy, I shall be in the worst place I ever was in my life. I don't know what I shall do.” “That's the first time you ever said that, I'll go bail,” Chevenix interrupted him. But Senhouse did not hear him. “I did everything I could at the time. I nearly made her quarrel with me--I dared do that. I went up to Wanless and saw Ingram. I hated the fellow, I disapproved of him, feared him. He was the last man in the world I could have tackled with a view to redemption. He was almost hopelessly bad, according to my view of things. Fed by slaves from the cradle, hag-ridden by his vices; a purple young bully, a product of filthy sloth, scabbed with privilege. I saw just how things were. She pitied him, and thought it was her business to save him. She did nobly. She gave herself for pity; and if she mistook that for love, the splendid generosity of her is enough to take the breath away. The world ought to have gone down on its knees to her--but it picked up its skirts for fear she might touch them. What a country! What a race! Well, feeling towards her as I did, and loathing him, I urged him to marry her--to make her his property for life. Dead against my conviction, mind you, but what else could I do? God help me, I played the renegade to what I sincerely believed. I couldn't see her done to death by a world of satyrs.” “Of course you couldn't, my dear man,” cried Chevenix. “Girls of her sort must be married, you know.” “I don't know anything of the kind,” replied Senhouse, fiercely; “but I loved her. You may put it that I funked. I did--and to no purpose.” “If you were to see her now,” Chevenix put in, “you could do some good. She'll be pretty lonely up there.” Senhouse got up. “I'll see her,” he said. “Whatever happens.” “Right,” said Chevenix. “That's a good man. That's what I wanted of you. I'll tell her that you're coming. Now I'm going to do the civil to Mrs. Germain.” Senhouse had turned away, and was leaning over the bulwarks, lost in his thoughts. He remained there until the passage was over. Mr. Chevenix, having approached the lady with all forms observed, made himself happy in her company, as, indeed, he did in all. “Now this is very jolly, Mrs. Germain, I must say. I'm a companionable beggar, I believe; and here I was in a ship where I didn't know a living soul until I met you and Senhouse. Didn't even know that you knew Senhouse. Queer fish, eh? Oh, the queerest fish in the sea! But you know all that, of course.”