Atherton laughed with him but persisted.

"If your own countrywomen don't appeal to you, take a run out to
the States and see what we can do for you."

The laugh died out of Craven's eyes and he moved restlessly in his
chair.

"It's no good, Jermyn. I'm not a marrying man," he said shortly.

Atherton smiled grimly at the recollection of a similar remark
emphatically uttered by himself at their last meeting.

For a time neither spoke. Each was conscious of a vague difference
in the other, developed during the years that had elapsed since
their last meeting--an intangible barrier checking the open
confidence of earlier days.

It was growing late. The sampans had nearly all disappeared and
only an occasional launch skimmed across the harbour.

A neighbouring yacht's band that had been silent for the last hour
began to play again--appropriately to the vicinity--Puccini's
well-known opera. The strains came subdued but clear across the
water on the scent-laden air. Craven sat forward in his chair, his
heels on the ground, his hands loosely clasped between his knees,
whistling softly the Consul's solo in the first act. From behind a
cloud of cigar smoke Atherton watched him keenly, and as he
watched he was thinking rapidly. He was used to making decisions