Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air of a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling contrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it was a clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half tears, such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in another without a dumb feeling of shame and shyness. But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there by this time--only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glance and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood between mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent. “We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate,” said a man, bearing the reputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two appreciators answered: “You're right,” and laughed good-humouredly. The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort at self-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by some generations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance with Dormer Colville, who stood at his side leaning on his gold-headed cane. Colville's expression seemed to say: “I told you what it would be. But wait: there is more to come.” His affable eyes made a round of the watching faces, and even exchanged a sympathetic smile with some, as if to hint that his clothes were only fine because he belonged to a fine generation, but that his heart was as human as any beating under a homelier coat. “There's Passen,” said one woman to another, behind the corner of her apron, within Colville's hearing. “It takes a deal to bring him out o' doors nowadays, and little Sep and--Miss Miriam.” Dormer Colville heard the words. And he heard something unspoken in the pause before the mention of the last name. He did not look at once in the direction indicated by a jerk of the speaker's thumb, but waited until a change of position enabled him to turn his head without undue curiosity. He threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after the manner of one cramped by standing too long in one attitude. A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke was wider, a grey-haired man was walking slowly toward the quay. In front of him a boy of ten years was endeavouring to drag a young girl toward the jetty at a quicker pace than she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosity and looking back toward the man who followed them with the abstraction and indifference of a student. Colville took in the whole picture in one quick comprehensive glance. But he turned again as the singer on board “The Last Hope” began another verse. The words were clearly audible to such as knew the language, and Colville noted that the girl turned with a sudden gravity to listen to them. “Un tel qu'on vantait Par hasard etait D'origine assez mince; Par hasard il plut, Par hasard il fut Baron, ministre, et prince.”