The sea was not rough. There was something congenial to the commotion and excitement of Reine’s spirit in the throb and bound of the steamer, and in the dark waves, with their ceaseless movement, through which, stormy and black and full of mysterious life as they looked, the blacker solid hull pushed its resistless way. She liked the strong current of the air, and the sense of progress, and even the half-terror of that dark world in which this little floating world held its own between sky and sea. Everard tossed his cigar over the ship’s side when he saw her, and came eagerly forward and drew her hand through his arm. It was the first time he had been able to say a word to her since they met. But even then Reine’s first question was not encouraging. “How do you think Bertie is looking?” she said. Every man, however, be his temper ever so touchy, can be patient when the inducement is strong enough. Everard, though deeply tempted to make a churlish answer, controlled himself in a second, and replied-- “Very well, I think; not robust, perhaps, Reine; you must not expect him all at once to look robust.” “I suppose not,” she said, with a sigh. “But quite _well_, which is much more important. It is not the degree, but the kind, that is to be looked at,” said Everard, with a great show of wisdom. “Strength is one thing, health is another; and it is not the most robustious men,” he went on with a smile, “who live longest, Reine.” “I suppose not,” she repeated. Then after a pause, “Do you think, from what you have seen of him, that he will be active and take up a country life? There is not much going on at Whiteladies; you say you found your life dull?” “To excuse myself for coming when you called upon me, Reine.” “Ah! but I did not call you. I never should have ventured. Everard, you are doing me injustice. How could I have taken so much upon myself?” “I wish you would take a great deal more upon yourself. You did, Reine. You said, ‘Stand in my place.’” “Yes, I know; my heart was breaking. Forgive me, Everard. Whom could I ask but you?” “I will forgive you anything you like, if you say that. And I did take your place, Reine. I did not want to, mind you--I wanted to be with _you_, not Bertie--but I did.” “Everard, you are kind, and so cruel. Thanks! thanks a thousand times!” “I do not want to be thanked,” he said, standing over her; for she had drawn her hand from his arm, and was standing by the steep stairs which led below, ready for escape. “I don’t care for thanks. I want to be rewarded. I am not one of the generous kind. I did not do it for nothing. Pay me, Reine!”