“Of course he didn’t,” exclaimed Hartley, impatiently; “how could he? Look here, Trimblett, when you talk like that I don’t know where I am. If my father hadn’t married my mother I suppose he would have married somebody else.” “My idea is that he couldn’t,” said the captain, obstinately. “If a thing has got to be it will be, and there’s no good worrying about it. Take a simple example. Some time you are going to die of a certain disease—you can only die once—and you’re going to be buried in a certain grave—you can only be buried in one grave. Try and think that in front of you there is that one particular disease told off to kill you at a certain date, and in one particular spot of all this earth there is a grave waiting to be dug for you. At present we don’t know the date, or the disease, or the grave, but there they are, all waiting for you. That is fate. What is the matter? Where are you going?” “Home,” said Hartley, bitterly, as he paused at the door. “I came round to you for a little help, and you go on in a way that makes my flesh creep. Good-by.” “Wait a bit,” said the captain, detaining him. “Wait a bit; let’s see what can be done.” He pulled the other back into his seat again and, fetching another bottle of beer from the house to stimulate invention, sat evolving schemes for his friend’s relief, the nature of which reflected more credit upon his ingenuity than his wisdom. “But, after all,” he said, as Hartley made a third attempt to depart, “what is the good? The very steps we take to avoid disaster may be the ones to bring it on. While you are round here getting advice from me, Robert Vyner may be availing himself of the opportunity to propose.” Hartley made no reply. He went out and walked up and down the garden, inspecting it. The captain, who was no gardener, hoped that the expression of his face was due to his opinion of the flowers. “You must miss Mrs. Chinnery,” said Hartley, at last. “No,” said the captain, almost explosively; “not at all. Why should I?” “It can’t be so homelike without her,” said Hartley, stooping to pull up a weed or two. “Just the same,” said the other, emphatically. “We have a woman in to do the work, and it doesn’t make the slightest difference to me—not the slightest.” “How is Truefitt?” inquired Hartley. The captain’s face darkened. “Peter’s all right,” he said, slowly. “He’s not treated me—quite well,” he added, after a little hesitation. “It’s natural he should neglect you a bit, as things are,” said his friend. “Neglect?” said the captain, bitterly. “I wish he would neglect me. He’s turning out a perfect busybody, and he’s getting as artful as they make ’em. I never would have believed it of Peter. Never.” Hartley waited.