I was a little troubled by his pertinacity. I had never liked Morton
Harland. His reputation, both as a man of wealth and a man of
letters, was to me unenviable. He did no particular good with his
money,--and such literary talent as he possessed he squandered in
attacking nobler ideals than he had ever been able to attain. He was
not agreeable to look at either; his pale, close-shaven face was
deeply marked by lines of avarice and cunning,--his tall, lean
figure had an aggressive air in its very attitude, and his unkind
mouth never failed, whether in speaking or smiling, to express a
sneer. Apparently he guessed the vague tenor of my thoughts, for he
went on:--

"Don't be afraid of me! I'm not an ogre, and I shan't eat you! You
think me a disagreeable man--well, so I am. I've had enough in my
life to make me disagreeable. And"--here he paused, passing his hand
across his eyes with a worried and impatient gesture--"I've had an
unexpected blow just lately. The doctors tell me that I have a
mortal disease for which there is no remedy. I may live on for
several years, or I may die suddenly; it's all a matter of care--or
chance. I want to forget the sad news for a while if I can. I've
told Catherine, and I suppose I've added to her usual burden of
vapours and melancholy--so we're a couple of miserable wretches.
It's not very unselfish of us to ask you to come and join us under
such circumstances--"

As he spoke my mind suddenly made itself up. I would go. Why not? A
cruise on a magnificent steam yacht, replete with every comfort and
luxury, was surely a fairly pleasant way of taking a holiday, even
with two invalids for company.