new life, from the doubtful respectability of Mrs. Smith, from the
squalor of the second-class from the whisky-laden snores of Dick Shand,
to a sweeter, brighter, cleaner world. Till this engagement had been
absolutely spoken he could still indulge in that romance, distant and
unreal as it was. But now,--now it seemed to be brought in upon him very
forcibly that he must rid his thoughts of Hester Bolton,--or else rid
his life of Mrs. Smith.

But he was engaged to marry Mrs. Smith. Then he got up, and walked
backwards and forwards along the deck, asking himself whether this could
really be the truth. Was he bound to this woman for his life? And if so,
had he done a thing of which he already repented himself? He tried to
persuade himself that she was admirably fitted for the life which he was
fated to lead. She was handsome, intellectual, a most delightful
companion, and yet capable of enduring the hardships of an adventurous
uncertain career. Ought he not to think himself peculiarly lucky in
having found for himself so eligible a companion? But there is something
so solemn, so sacred, in the name of wife. A man brought up among soft
things is so imbued with the feeling that his wife should be something
better, cleaner, sweeter, holier than himself that he could not but be
awe-struck when he thought that he was bound to marry this all but
nameless widow of some drunken player,--this woman who, among other
women, had been thought unfit for all companionship!

But things arrange themselves. How probable it was that he would never
be married to her. After all, this might be but an incident, and not an
unpleasant incident, in his life. He had had his amusement out of it,
and she had had hers. Perhaps they would part to meet no more. But when
he thought that there might be comfort in this direction, he felt that
he was a scoundrel for thinking so.