To a harbour where the wind is still;
Oh, my dearie, do you wait for me?
Oh, my dearie, do you love me still?
Sing, hey, for a rover on the sea,
And the old world!"

I noticed that Mrs. Falchion's brow contracted as the song proceeded,
making a deep vertical line between the eyes, and that the fingers of the
hand nearest me closed on the chair-arm firmly. The hand attracted me.
It was long, the fingers were shapely, but not markedly tapering, and
suggested firmness. I remarked afterward, when I chanced to shake hands
with her, that her fingers enclosed one's hand; it was not a mere touch
or pressure, but an unemotional and possessive clasp. I felt sure that
she had heard the song before, else it had not produced even this so
slight effect on her nerves. I said: "It is a quaint song. I suppose
you are familiar with it and all of its kind?"

"I fancy I have heard it somewhere," she answered in a cold voice.

I am aware that my next question was not justified by our very short
acquaintance; but this acquaintance had been singular from its beginning,
and it did not seem at that moment as it looks on paper; besides, I had
the Intermediate Passenger in my mind. "Perhaps your husband is a naval
man?" I asked.

A faint flush passed over her face, and then, looking at me with a
neutral expression and some reserve of manner, she replied: "My husband
was not a naval man."

She said "was not." That implied his death.