would have done in order to have "the last word." That argued sense, judgment, tact. Further, she had avoided that vulgar commonplace, instinctive to the crude and unthinking mind, of whatever sex, of importing a personal application into an abstract discussion. This, too, argued tact and mental refinement, both qualities of rarer distribution among her sex than is commonly supposed – qualities, however, which Laurence Stanninghame was peculiarly able to appreciate.
Then she talked about other things, and he let her talk, just throwing in a word here and there to stimulate the expansion of her ideas. And they were good ideas, too, he decided, listening keenly, and balancing her every point, whether he agreed with it or not. He was interested, more vividly interested than he would fain admit! This girl with the enthralling face and noble beauty of form, had a mind as well. All the slavish adoration she received had not robbed her of that. It was an experience to him, as they lounged there on the taffrail together in the gold-spangled velvet hush of the tropical night. How delightfully companionable she could be, he thought; so responsive, so discriminating and unargumentative. Argumentativeness in women was a detestable vice, in his opinion, for it meant everything but what the word itself etymologically did. Craftily he drew her out, cunningly he touched up every fallacy or crudeness in her ideas, in such wise that she unconsciously adopted his amendments, under the impression that they were all her own.
"But – I have been boring you all this time," she broke off at last. "Confess now, you who are nothing if not candid. I have been boring your life out?"
"Then, on your own showing, I am nothing, for I am not candid," he answered. "On the contrary, it is an unadvisable virtue, and one calculated to corner you without loophole. And you certainly have not been boring me."
He thought, sardonically, what any one of those whom he had caustically defined as her "poodles" would give for an hour or so of similar boredom, if it involved Lilith all to himself. Some of this must have been reflected in his eyes, for Lilith broke in quickly:
"No, you are not candid. I accept the amendment. I can see the sarcasm in your face."
"But not on that account," he rejoined tranquilly, and at the same time dropping his hand on to hers as it rested on the taffrail. The act – an instinctive one – was a dumb protest against the movement she had made to withdraw. And as such Lilith read it; more potent in its impulsiveness than any words could have been. "Listen!" he went on. "I suppose there is a sort of imp of scepticism sitting ever upon one shoulder, and that is what you saw. Something in my thoughts suggested a droll contrast, that was all. So far from boring me, you have afforded me an intensely agreeable surprise."
"Now you are sneering again. I will not talk any more."
He recognized in her tone a quick sensitiveness – not temper. Accordingly his own took on an unconscious softness, a phenomenally unwonted softness.
"Don't be foolish, child. You know I was doing nothing of the sort. Go on with what you were saying at once."
"What was I saying? Oh, I remember. That idea that board-ship life shows people in their real character. Do you believe in it?"
"Only in the case of those who have no real character to show. Wherein is a paradox. Those who have got any – well, don't show it, either on board ship or on shore."
"I believe you are right. Now, my own character, do you think it shows out more readable on board than it would on shore."
"Do you think you have me so transparently as that? What was I saying just now on that head?"
"I see. Really, though, I had no ulterior motive. I asked the question in perfect good faith. Tell me – if anyone can, you can. Tell me. Shall I make a success – a good thing of life? I often wonder."
She threw up her head with a quick movement, and the wide, serious eyes, fixed full upon his, seemed to flash in the starlight. He met the glance with one as earnest and unswerving as her own.
"You rate my powers of vaticination too high," he said slowly, "and – you are groping after an ideal."
"Perhaps. Tell me, though, what you think, character-reader as you are. Shall I make a success of life?"
"I should think the chances were pretty evenly balanced either way, inclining, if anything, to the reverse."
"Thanks. I shall remember that."
"But you are not obliged to believe it."
"No. I shall remember it. And now I must go below; it is nearly time for putting out the saloon lights. Good-night. I have enjoyed our talk so much."
She had extended her hand, and as he took it, the sympathetic – was it magnetic? – pressure was mutual, almost lingering.
"Good-night," he said. "The enjoyment has not been all on one side."
Left alone, he returned to his solitary musings – tried to, rather, for there was no "return" about the matter, because now they took an entirely new line. His late companion would intrude upon them – nay, monopolized them. She had appealed powerfully to his senses, to his mind, how long would it be before she did so to his heart? He had avoided her – he alone – up till then, and yet now, after this first conversation, he was convinced that of all gathered there he alone knew the real Lilith Ormskirk as distinct from the superficial one known to the residue. And to his mind recurred her former warning, laughingly uttered: "Beware such unholy spells!" With a strange intoxicating recollection did that warning recur, together with the consciousness that more than ever was it needed now. But as against this was the protecting strength of a triple chain armour. Life was only rendered interesting by such interesting character studies as this. Oh, yes; that was the solution – that, and nothing more.
This was by no means the last talk they had – they two alone together. But it seemed to Laurence Stanninghame that a warning note had been sounded, and one of no uncertain nature. His tone became more acrid, his sarcasm more biting, more envenomed. One day Lilith said:
"Why do you dislike me so?"
He started at the question, thrown momentarily off his guard.
"I don't dislike you," he answered shortly.
"Then why have you such a very poor opinion of me? You never lose an opportunity of letting me see that you have. What have I done? What have I said that you should think so poorly of me?"
There was no spice of temper, of resentment, in the tone. It was soft, and rather pleading. The serious eyes were sweet and wistful. As his own met their steady gaze, it seemed that a current of magnetic thought flashed from mind to mind.
"I hold no such opinion," he said, after a few moments of silence. "Perhaps I dread those 'unholy spells,' thou sorceress. Ah! there goes the second dinner-bell. Run away now, and make yourself more beautiful than ever – if possible."
A bright laugh flashed in the hazel eyes, and the white teeth showed in a smile.
"I'll try – since you wish it," she said over her shoulder, as she turned away.
CHAPTER IV.
THE LAND OF PROMISE
The throb of the propeller has almost ceased; faint, too, is the vibration of the slowed-down engines. The Persian is gliding with well-nigh imperceptible motion through the smooth waters of Table Bay.
It is a perfect morning, cloudless in its dazzling splendour. In front, the huge Table Mountain rears its massive wall, dwarfing the mud-town lying at its base and the bristling masts of shipping, its great line mirrored in the sheeny surface. Away in the distance, the purple cones of the Hottentots Holland mountains loom thirstily through a glimmer of summer haze. A fair scene indeed after three weeks of endless sea and sky.
"And what are your first impressions of my native land?"
Laurence turned.
"I was thinking less of the said land than of myself," he answered. "I was thinking what potentialities would lie between my first impressions of it and my last."
Just a suspicion of gravity came over Lilith Ormskirk's face at the remark.
"And are you glad the voyage is at an end, now that it is?" she