"Or the Spring Meetings?" suggested Larpent, as he chose his cigar.

"Quite so," said Saltash, almost with relief. "My old trainer--the man
who bought my racing-stud--always looks for me about now. You ought to
meet him by the way. He is another speaker of cruel truths."

He thrust a hand through his captain's arm as they left the saloon, and
they went on deck together. Though Larpent never made any sign of
resentment, yet was Saltash never wholly at his ease when he knew that he
had taxed his forbearance until he had made amends. He took the trouble
to make himself unusually agreeable as they settled down to their smoke.

It was a night of glorious stars, the sea one vast stretch of silver
ripples, through which the yacht ran smoothly, leaving a wide white trail
behind her. Saltash lay in a deck-chair with his face to the sky, but his
attitude was utterly lacking in the solid repose that characterized his
companion. He smoked his cigar badly, with impatient pulls. When it was
half gone, he suddenly swore and flung it overboard.

"Larpent," he said, breaking a silence, "if you were a damned
rotter--like me--what should you do with yourself?"

Larpent turned his head and quietly surveyed him. "I shouldn't run a home
for waifs and strays," he said deliberately.

Saltash made a sharp movement. "Then I suppose you'd leave 'em in the
gutter to starve," he said, with suppressed vehemence.

"No, I shouldn't. I'd pay someone else--someone who wasn't what you