". . . folly. Worse than folly." He was holding his gloves now, and was
lightly flicking the edge of the table with them in place of verbal
emphasis. He suddenly regarded me again as if he strongly suspected me
of being his antipathy. "Who but a fool would take a woman to such a
country as that? Any romantic sentimentalist, I suppose. I forget the
name of the ship. There was, you might say, hardly sufficient room to
paint a name on her. She was no more than a tug. It was a miracle she
survived to get there at all, for she had crossed from England. Crossed
the Western ocean in such a craft, and brought a woman with him. Did
ever you hear of such folly?"

Now I was certain of our whereabouts, and felt a weak inclination to show
an elder that I, too, knew something about it; but when I leaned forward
eagerly and was about to speak, the doctor screwed in that devastating
monocle, and I felt I was only a curious example of the sort of thing he
especially disliked. For a minute, in which I wondered if I had quite
stopped his guarded flow, he said no more. Then he addressed his
eyeglass to a panel of the partition, and flicked his gloves at that.

"I had noticed for some days that little craft lying near us, but gave
her no attention. I had sixteen men to attend to with complexions like
lemons, and one died. There was no time to bother with other folk's
troubles. Our skipper, one breakfast-time, told me there was a woman
aboard that little thing, and he'd been asked whether I'd go over. She
was ill.

"I've seen some queer packets of misery at sea, but never one that
touched that ship. Her skipper seemed a regular fool. I had to ask him
to speak up, for he mumbled like a boy who has been caught out, and knows
it is useless to pretend. I learned from him that he was only just