Had he been coolly analyzing such a situation in the detached environment of the smoking-room, he would have called any man a fool who hesitated to open his cabin door and show his visitor out.

But such a thought did not occur to him now.
He was thinking of the handkerchief he had found the preceding midnight.
Twice she had come to his cabin at a late hour.
"It would be my inclination to make such a thing possible," he said, answering her question.

"Tragedy is a nasty thing." She caught the hint of irony in his voice.

If anything, it added to her calmness.

He was to suffer no weeping entreaties, no feminine play of helplessness and beauty.