“Jacynth, I wish I was certain to live for ten years or even for three,” said Lord Francis Onslow, in the low, nerveless voice that had recently become habitual to him. The two friends were walking up and down the deck smoking their last cigar. Four bells had sounded and they had the deck pretty much to themselves, save for the ghostly figures of the watch that moved with noiseless footsteps to and fro. When they came on deck after dinner the moon was shining, and far away on the starboard bow they could clearly discern the coast of Ireland, lying like a dark shadow on the moonlit water. Even as they walked and talked the scene changed. It had not at any time of the day been perfectly calm, as the passengers on the tender found as they made their way into Queenstown Harbor. Now it was blowing pretty fresh from the southwest, bringing up angry-looking clouds that from time to time hid the moon, promising presently finally to obscure its light. They were drawing up to Carnsore Point, and were soon in the race of the channel. By this time they had found their sea legs, and though the wind played havoc with their cigars, as they paced about, and they gave up the attempt to keep pace in walking, they held on, Jacynth’s spirits rising with the boisterous breeze. “Ten years, old man? Why, you’re only thirty at most, turned middle milestone--good for another thirty at least--and why should you not see threescore years and ten?” “Because,” said Lord Francis, “I’m pretty well played out at thirty. I’ve warmed both hands at the fire of life, and burnt them too. You remember when we were in Paris, last year, going to see Emile Angier, in the play ‘Jean de Thomeray’? Often of late one scene comes back to me. The silent Quai Malaquais which, on the eve of the beleaguering of Paris, the daylight even has deserted. Upon it _Jean_ enters, skeptic and libertine, who jeers at his friend, who has taken the trouble to get wounded in the struggle with the Germans closing round the capital. Suddenly a military band approaches, playing a march _Thomeray_ knew when a child in far-off Brittany. At sight of the Breton Mobiles marching along at quick step to meet the enemy of the country, _Thomeray’s_ heart swells and bursts the bonds in which his scoffing nature had permitted itself to be bound. You remember how he steps forward and claims a place in the Breton ranks. ‘_Qui êtes vous?_’ they ask, looking distrustfully at his fine gentleman’s clothes. ‘I am,’ he said, ‘a man who has lived ill and would die well.’ That am I, Jacynth, but it would not be meet that I should die just yet. I’ve been a fool and worse. But if I had only three years, two years, one year to pay some of my long debt to Fenella, I wouldn’t care about what might follow. It’s been all my fault from first to last. I want time to tell her that, and to make some slight amends.” “Nonsense, Onslow, you are hipped; perhaps seasick. Shall we turn in?”