He was aroused from these golden visions by a touch on his arm, and turning round, saw his special dislike, the Marchese Vassalla, looking at him. The Marchese detested Monteith, both for his good looks, and for the evident regard Miss Cotoner had for him. He would like to have dropped his rival over the side along with poor Ventin's body, but as he couldn't do this, he was excessively polite, and watched for an opportunity to do him an injury. Here was a chance now, and the wily Maltese took full advantage of it. He overheard the conversation between Pat and Monteith, so determined to dash all Ronald's hopes to the ground, by telling him that Carmela was engaged. To this end the serpent came into Ronald's paradise, and smiling, invited him not to have an apple, but a drink. The young man would have refused, but then he thought he might learn something about Carmela, and after all, the Marchese was her cousin, so he consented, and went down to the bar with the smiling Maltese gentleman. As it was about eleven o'clock, they found the bar surrounded by thirsty souls having cocktails. In fact, there was a "Cocktail Club" on board, and it was a very popular drink with the young men, particularly if they had been up late the night before. Cocktails therefore, being the prevailing beverage, the Marchese and his victim each had one, and then the former gentleman opened the campaign. "I shall be sorry when this voyage is over," he said, carelessly. "So shall I," replied Monteith, thinking of the chances of meeting Carmela in London. "But I daresay I'll meet Miss--I mean you again." "I don't think so," said Vassalla, coldly. "Myself and my cousin only stay a few days in London, and then go down to some friends in the country." "Oh!" said Ronald, and looked blank. "And then," pursued his tormentor, eyeing him mercilessly, "I am coming back to London to arrange about our marriage." The poor lad turned pale as death. "Whose marriage?" "Mine and my cousin's. Did you not know we were engaged?" Ronald finished his drink in a mechanical sort of way, and putting down his glass, walked away to his cabin, and shut himself in. The Marchese looked after him with a grim smile. "I think that will give you food for reflection my friend," he muttered, lighting a cigarette as he strolled away. "What's up with that Maltese devil?" asked Bentley. "He looks quite pleased with himself." "It's more than Monteith did; he walked away as pale as a ghost," said Pat. "It's about the girl from Malta, you bet," said Bentley, sagely, and no one contradicted him.