“It’s very unkind and rude of you to say that.” “It reminds me of a moving picture I saw in New York. It was called ‘Saved from the Scaffold.’” “Oh!” “I’m not unhappy! What have I got to be unhappy about? What on earth does any man want to get married for? I don’t. Give me my gay bachelor life! My Uncle Charlie used to say ‘It’s better luck to get married than it is to be kicked in the head by a mule.’ But _he_ was a man who always looked on the bright side. Good-night, Miss Bennett. And good-bye—for ever.” He turned on his heel and strode across the deck. From a white heaven the moon still shone benignantly down, mocking him. He had spoken bravely; the most captious critic could not but have admitted that he had made a good exit. But already his heart was aching. As he drew near to his state-room, he was amazed and disgusted to hear a high tenor voice raised in song proceeding from behind the closed door. “I fee-er naw faw in shee-ining arr-mor, Though his lance be sharrrp and—er keen; But I fee-er, I fee-er the glah-mour Therough thy der-rooping lashes seen: I fee-er, I fee-er the glah-mour....” Sam flung open the door wrathfully. That Eustace Hignett should still be alive was bad—he had pictured him hurling himself overboard and bobbing about, a pleasing sight in the wake of the vessel; that he should be singing was an outrage. Remorse, Sam felt, should have stricken Eustace Hignett dumb. Instead of which, here he was comporting himself like a blasted linnet. It was all wrong. The man could have no conscience whatever. “Well,” he said sternly, “so there you are!” Eustace Hignett looked up brightly, even beamingly. In the brief interval which had elapsed since Sam had seen him last, an extraordinary transformation had taken place in this young man. His wan look had disappeared. His eyes were bright. His face wore that beastly self-satisfied smirk which you see in pictures advertising certain makes of fine-mesh underwear. If Eustace Hignett had been a full-page drawing in a magazine with “My dear fellow, I always wear Sigsbee’s Super-fine Featherweight!” printed underneath him, he could not have looked more pleased with himself. “Hullo!” he said. “I was wondering where you had got to.” “Never mind,” said Sam coldly, “where I had got to! Where did you get to and why? You poor, miserable worm,” he went on in a burst of generous indignation, “what have you to say for yourself? What do you mean by dashing away like that and killing my little entertainment?” “Awfully sorry, old man. I hadn’t foreseen the cigar. I was bearing up tolerably well till I began to sniff the smoke. Then everything seemed to go black—I don’t mean you, of course. You were black already—and I got the feeling that I simply must get on deck and drown myself.” “Well, why didn’t you?” demanded Sam with a strong sense of injury. “I might have forgiven you then. But to come down here and find you singing....” A soft light came into Eustace Hignett’s eyes.