"I prefer Farlingford. I am half a Clubbe--and the other half!--Heaven knows what that is! The offshoot of some forgotten seedling blown away from France by a great storm. If my father knew, he never said anything. And if he knew, and said nothing, one may be sure that it was because he was ashamed of what he knew. You never saw him, or you would have known his dread of France, or anything that was French. He was a man living in a dream. His body was here in Farlingford, but his mind was elsewhere--who knows where? And at times I feel that, too--that unreality--as if I were here, and somewhere else at the same time. But all the same, I prefer Farlingford, even if it is a dream." The moon had risen at last; a waning half-moon, lying low and yellow in the sky, just above the horizon, casting a feeble light on earth. Loo turned and looked at Miriam, who had always met his glance with her thoughtful, steady eyes. But now she turned away. "Farlingford is best, at all events," he said, with an odd conviction. "I am only the grandson of old Seth Clubbe, of Maiden's Grave. I am a Farlingford sailor, and that is all. I am mate of 'The Last Hope'--at your service." "You are more than that." He made a step nearer to her, looking down at her white face, averted from him. For her voice had been uncertain--unsteady--as if she were speaking against her will. "Even if I am only that," he said, suddenly grave, "Farlingford may still be a dream--Farlingford and--you." "What do you mean?" she asked, in a quick, mechanical voice, as if she had reached a desired crisis at last and was prepared to act. "Oh, I only mean what I have meant always," he answered. "But I have been afraid--afraid. One hears, sometimes, of a woman who is generous enough to love a man who is a nobody--to think only of love. Sometimes--last voyage, when you used to sit where you are sitting now--I have thought that it might have been my extraordinary good fortune to meet such a woman." He waited for some word or sign, but she sat motionless. "You understand," he went on, "how contemptible must seem their talk of a heritage in France, when such a thought is in one's mind, even if--" "Yes," she interrupted, hastily. "You were quite wrong. You were mistaken." "Mistaking in thinking you--" "Yes," she interrupted again. "You are quite mistaken, and I am very sorry, of course, that it should have happened." She was singularly collected, and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Barebone's eyes gleamed suddenly; for she had aroused-perhaps purposely--a pride which must have accumulated in his blood through countless generations. She struck with no uncertain hand. "Yes," he said, slowly; "it is to be regretted. Is it because I am the son of a nameless father and only the mate of 'The Last Hope'?" "If you were before the mast--" she answered--"if you were a King, it would make no difference. It is simply because I do not care for you in that way."