He was sure now that she had intended to check him. That reminder of the Service--which she had spoken partly to gain time, partly to drag back her own thoughts to realities--seemed to him a deliberate thrust, well aimed. He was still in the Service, still a snotty--powerless. It became a source of embarrassment that she was beautiful and wore beautiful things. His imagination drew for him a picture of her dressing-table, spread with silver; of her furs; of her soft dresses, orderly and exquisite; of her maid brushing that wonderful hair--and of the vast house in London, with its stone steps for ever in the twilight of a frowning porch, and its stern door, of which the handle was but an ornament not made to turn. In contrast were his barbarous sea-chest and hammock, his own small home tucked away in the country, and his one shilling and ninepence a day. He had been a fool to think that she--oh, a thousand times a fool! Feeling that the moment and, above all, her cruel thrust had given him the right to say what for long years--until he was more than a snotty--he might not say again, he flashed out: “Come what may, Margaret, you’re the best I have on earth.” And he turned away, leaving her to follow him out of the ammunition passage. She, not knowing how she had wounded him, not realizing how her one word “impossible” had been misinterpreted, moved her lips to speak. His last phrase--a direct statement rather than an exclamation--thrilled her. He had meant every word of it. It was the finest tribute a woman could hear spoken; and he had given it finely--every syllable swift and clear-cut like sharp-edged flames. And yet---- She did not speak. She stood without moving. Already he was a few paces away--the nozzle of a fire-hose glinted between them: and he did not turn round. There would have been no need for speech had he turned. She would have run to him. They would have made great plans, too brave to be impossible. But he did not turn, and in a moment she began to follow him. CHAPTER XIX CRISIS I Mr. Fane-Herbert had recently returned to Wei-hai-wei after what his household was led to believe had been a prosperous absence. He bullied the Chinese boys with cheerful energy; he patted Margaret’s hand, and chuckled at the jokes which he gave her to understand he would have made but for her innocent presence; he allowed his moustache to rest a little longer than usual on the forehead his wife raised to him each morning when, after entering the breakfast-room, he exclaimed, rubbing his hands, “Ah, nice hot coffee! Nice crinkly bacon! What more can a man want?... Well, well--good-morning, everyone. Morning, my dear”--all these being signs that the world was revolving as he wished it to revolve. Ordith had immediately been in attendance. One morning soon after the Gunroom tea-party he and Mr. Fane-Herbert were shut up together for three hours.