Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of discomfort

growing on him. For it was as though Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud,

and putting him into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper.

But there was in the mess-room another listener. It was the steward, who

had come in carrying a tin coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood

quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, sallow face, long features, heavy

eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body encased in a short black

jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made up

an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward suddenly, and

interrupted the mate's monologue.

"More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to

give breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire

out. Now's your chance."

The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head

freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the

corners towards the steward.

"And is the precious pair of them out?" he growled.

The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's cup, muttered moodily

but distinctly: "The lady wasn't when I was laying the table."

Powell's ears were fine enough to detect something hostile in this

reference to the captain's wife. For of what other person could they be

speaking? The steward added with a gloomy sort of fairness: "But she

will be before I bring the dishes in. She never gives that sort of

trouble. That she doesn't."

"No. Not in that way," Mr. Franklin agreed, and then both he and the

steward, after glancing at Powell--the stranger to the ship--said nothing

more.

But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity. Curiosity is natural to

man. Of course it was not a malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly

natural, is to be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more

frequently in women--especially if a woman be in question; and that woman

under a cloud, in a manner of speaking. For under a cloud Flora de

Barral was fated to be even at sea. Yes. Even that sort of darkness

which attends a woman for whom there is no clear place in the world hung

over her. Yes. Even at sea!

* * * * *

And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can struggle to get a

place for himself or perish. But a woman's part is passive, say what you

like, and shuffle the facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of

energy, of wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact, almost all women

have all that--of their own kind. But they are not made for attack. Wait

they must. I am speaking here of women who are really women. And it's

no use talking of opportunities, either. I know that some of them do

talk of it. But not the genuine women. Those know better. Nothing can

beat a true woman for a clear vision of reality; I would say a cynical

vision if I were not afraid of wounding your chivalrous feelings--for

which, by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to fellows

of your kind . . .




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