music saloon, from which light streamed.

"That is the head," said I.

She deliberately placed the paper in the belt of light, and, looking at
it, remarked mechanically: "This is the head, is it?" She showed no
change of countenance, and handed it back to me as if she had seen no
likeness. "It is very interesting," she said, "but one would think you
might make better use of your time than by surreptitiously sketching
portraits from sick men's breasts. One must have plenty of leisure to do
that sort of thing, I should think. Be careful that you do not get into
mischief, Dr. Marmion." She laughed. "Besides, where was the special
peculiarity in that portrait that you should treasure it in pencil so
conventionally?--Your drawing is not good.--Where was the point or need?"

"I have no right to reply to that directly," I responded. "But this
man's life is not for always, and if anything happened to him it would
seem curious to strangers to find that on his breast--because, of course,
more than I would see it there."

"If anything happened? What should happen? You mean, on board ship?"
There was a little nervousness in her tone now.

"I am only hinting at an awkward possibility," I replied.

She looked at me scornfully. "When did you see that picture on his
breast?" I told her. "Ah! before THAT day?" she rejoined. I knew
that she referred to the evening when I had yielded foolishly to the
fascination of her presence. The blood swam hotly in my face. "Men are
not noble creatures," she continued.