“Unless,” she remarked tentatively, “I came to convert!” He nodded. “There is something in that,” he admitted. “It would be a great work, a little difficult, you know.” “All the more interesting!” “You see,” he continued, “I am not only bad, but I admire badness. My wish is to remain bad--in fact, I should like to be worse if I knew how. You would find it hard to make a start. I couldn’t even admit that a state of goodness was desirable!” She looked at him curiously. The night air was perhaps getting colder, for she shivered, and drew the rug a little closer around her. “You speak like a prophet,” she remarked. “A prophet of evil then!” She looked at him steadfastly. The lightness had gone out of her tone. “Do you know,” she said, “I am almost sorry that I ever knew you?” He shook his head. “You can’t mean it,” he declared. “Why not?” “I have done you the greatest service one human being can render another! I have saved you from being bored!” She nodded. “That may be true,” she admitted. “But can you conceive no worse state in the world than being bored?” “There is no worse state,” he answered drily. “I was bored once,” he added, “for ten years or so; I ought to know!” “Were you married?” she asked. He shook his head. “Not quite so bad as that,” he answered. “I was in prison!” She turned a startled face towards him. “Nonsense!” “It is perfectly true,” he said coolly. “Are you horrified?” “What did you do?” she asked in a low tone. “I killed a man.” “Purposely?” He shrugged his shoulders. “He attacked me! I had to defend myself.” She said nothing for several moments. “Shall I go?” he asked. “No! Sit still,” she answered. “I am frightened of you, but I don’t want you to go away. I want to think.... Yes! I can understand you better now! Your life was spoilt!” “By no means,” he answered. “I am still young! I am going to make up for those ten years.” She shook her head. “You cannot,” she answered. “The years can carry no more than their ordinary burden of sensations. If you try to fill them too full, you lose everything.” “I shall try what I can do!” he remarked calmly. She rose abruptly. “I am afraid of you tonight,” she said. “I am going downstairs. Will you give my rug and cushion to the deck steward? And--good night.” She gave him her hand, but she did not look at him, and she hurried away a little abruptly. Wingrave yawned, and lighting a cigar, strolled up and down the deck. A figure loomed out of the darkness and almost ran into him. It was the young man in the serge suit. He muttered a clumsy apology and hurried on. A COCKNEY CONSPIRATOR “The bar closes in ten minutes, sir!” the smoking room steward announced.