"It is not for myself that I'm worrying," he said, "but for you. I don't quite see my way clear yet. It's sort of sharp and sudden. I cannot get the poor Mertons out of my head--people that have been accustomed to their carriages and all. It's hard for them! You see, what they say is that their financial facilities have been withdrawn, and I dare say nobody is to blame. It is just what they call the hand of God, in a bill of lading--just the hand of God." "Yes, dear," answered Eve. "And now I am going to serve out a glass of sherry; you want it after your quick walk. That is what you did at sea, you served it out, did you not?" "He, he! yes, dearie; that is it." His rugged hand shook as he drank the wine. "Only," he went on, after wiping his moustache vigorously with a red pocket-handkerchief--"only it was rum, dearie--rum, you know, for heavy weather. It puts heart into the men." His face suddenly clouded over again. "And we've run into heavy weather, haven't we? Just the hand of God." "Finish the glass," said Eve, and she stood over him while he drank the wine. "And now," she went on, "listen to me. I have had a very important letter, which could hardly have come at a more opportune moment. In fact, I think we may call it also . . . what they say in a bill of lading." She opened the letter, as if about to read it aloud, and on glancing through she seemed to change her mind. "It is from Mrs. Harrington," she said. "It is a very kind letter." She looked at her uncle, whose face had suddenly hardened. He seemed to be schooling himself to hear something unpleasant. "Ay!" he muttered, "ay! I suppose she'll get her way now. I suppose I can't hope to keep you now. She'll get you--she'll get you." "Then I think you are a very mean old man!" exclaimed Eve. "I don't believe you are a sailor at all. You are what you call a land-lubber, if you think that I am the sort of person to accept your kindness when you are prosperous, and then--and then when heavy weather comes to go away and leave you." The old man smiled rather wanly, and fumbled with the red pocket-handkerchief. "As it happens, Mrs. Harrington does not ask me to go and stay with her--she asks me--" She paused and laid her hand on his shoulder gently. "She asks me--to accept money." Captain Bontnor sat upright. "Ay-y-y," he said, "charity." "Yes," said Eve quietly, "charity; and I'm going to accept it." Captain Bontnor scratched his head. His manners were not, as has already been stated, remarkable for artificiality or superficial refinement. He screwed up his features as if he were swallowing something nasty. "Read me the letter," he said. Eve opened the missive again, and looked at it. "She puts it very nicely," she said. "She asks if you will permit me to accept a dress allowance from a rich woman who does not always spend her money discreetly."