Day succeeded day in tiresome waiting, and Mr. Robert Vyner, leaning back in his chair, regarded with a hostile eye the pile of work that accumulated on his table as he sat dreaming of Joan Hartley. In a species of waking nightmare he would see her beset by hordes of respectful but persistent admirers. He manifested a craving for Mr. Hartley’s society, and, discovering by actual experience that, melancholy as the house was without its mistress, all other places were more melancholy still, contrived, to its owner’s great discomfort, to spend a considerable number of his evenings there. “He’s a pattern to all of you,” said Rosa to Mr. Walters, who sat in the kitchen one evening, cautiously watching Mr. Vyner through a small hole in the muslin blind. Mr. Walters grunted. “I believe he worships the ground she treads on,” said Rosa, in exalted tones. Mr. Walters grunted again, and her colour rose. For nearly a fortnight she had not spoken to any other man—at least, to the boatswain’s knowledge—and she fully realized the cloying effect of security upon a man of his temperament. “Last night I saw him standing for half an hour looking into a shop,” she said, softly. “What shop do you think it was?” Mr. Walters’s face took on an obstinate expression. “Butcher’s?” he hazarded, at last. “Butcher’s!” repeated Rosa, with scorn. “What should he want to look in a butcher’s for? It was Hickman’s, the jeweller’s.” The boatswain said “Oh!” and devoted himself with renewed interest to his task of watching Mr. Vyner. Miss Jelks’s conversation for some time past had circled round engagement-rings, a subject which brought him face to face with the disagreeable side of flirtation. “More fool him,” he said, without looking round. Rosa gazed fixedly at the back of his head. She was far too sensible not to have noticed the gradual waning of his passion, and she chided herself severely for having dropped her usual tactics. At the same time she realized that she was not alone to blame in the matter, the gilded youth of Salthaven, after one or two encounters with Mr. Walters, having come to the conclusion that a flirtation with her was a temptation to be avoided. “Most men _are_ fools,” she said, calmly. “A young fellow I met the other evening—the night you couldn’t come out—went on like a madman just because I wouldn’t promise to meet him again.” “Pity I didn’t see ’im,” said Mr. Walters, grimly. “Oh!” said Rosa, losing her head. “Why?” “I’d ha’ give ’im something to make a fuss about,” said the boatswain, “that’s all.” “It’s not his fault,” said Rosa, softly. “He couldn’t help himself. He told me so. Quite the gentleman—quite. You ought to see the way he raises his hat. And his head is covered all over with little short curls.” “Like a nigger,” said Mr. Walters, with disappointing calmness. He removed his eye from the window and, taking out his pipe, began to fill it from a small metal box. Rosa, compressing her lips, watched him with a sardonic smile.