looked, not at the bier, but straight out to sea, calm and apparently
unsympathetic, though, as she thought, her husband was being buried.
When, however, the weighted body divided the water with a swingeing
sound, her face suddenly suffused, as though shame had touched her or
some humiliating idea had come. But she turned to Justine almost
immediately, and soon after said calmly: "Bring a play of Moliere, and
read to me, Justine."

I had the packet her supposed dead husband had left for her in my pocket.
I joined her, and we paced the deck, at first scarcely speaking, while
the passengers dispersed, some below, some to the smoking-rooms, some
upon deck-chairs to doze through the rest of the lazy afternoon. The
world had taken up its orderly course again. At last, in an unfrequented
corner of the deck, I took the packet from my pocket and handed it to
her. "You understand?" I asked.

"Yes, I understand. And now, may I beg that for the rest of your natural
life"--here she paused, and bit her lip in vexation that the unlucky
phrase had escaped her--"you will speak of this no more?"

"Mrs. Boyd Madras," I said (here she coloured indignantly),--"pardon me
for using the name, but it is only this once,--I shall never speak of the
matter to you again, nor to any one else, unless there is grave reason."

We walked again in silence. Passing the captain's cabin, we saw a number
of gentlemen gathered about the door, while others were inside. We
paused, to find what the incident was. Captain Ascott was reading the
letter which Boyd Madras had wished to be made public. (I had given it
to him just before the burial, and he was acting as though Boyd Madras
was really dead--he was quite ignorant of our conspiracy.) I was about to