vessel caused him to touch, every now and then, with the point of his
patent-leather boots. Patent-leather boots. That alone classes him,
thought Mr. Heard. Once he paused and remarked, in his horrible
pronunciation of English:

"That woman over there with the child! I wonder what I would do in her
place? Throw it into the water, I fancy. It's often the only way of
getting rid of a nuisance."

"Rather a violent measure," replied the Bishop politely.

"You're not feeling very well, sir?" he continued, with a fine
assumption of affability. "I am so sorry. As for me, I like a little
movement of the boat. You know our proverb? Weeds don't spoil. I'm
alluding to myself, of course!"

Weeds don't spoil. . . .

Yes, he was a weed. Mr. Heard had not taken kindly to him; he hoped
they would not see too much of each other on Nepenthe, which he
understood to be rather a small place. A few words of civility over the
table d'hote had led to an exchange of cards--a continental custom which
Mr. Heard always resented. It could not easily be avoided in the
present case. They had talked of Nepenthe, or rather Mr. Muhlen had
talked; the bishop, as usual, preferring to listen and to learn. Like
himself, Mr. Muhlen had never before set foot on the place. To be sure,
he had visited other Mediterranean islands; he knew Sicily fairly well
and had once spent a pleasant fortnight on Capri. But Nepenthe was
different. The proximity to Africa, you know; the volcanic soil. Oh
yes! It was obviously quite another sort of island. Business? No! He