he had hated with a desperate and passionate hatred.  He saw the broken photograph, the glass splintered into a thousand pieces.  He saw the man himself, choking, sinking down beneath the black waters; heard the stifled cry from his palsied lips, saw the slow dawning agony of death in his distorted features.  Some one was playing a mandolin down in the second class.  He heard the feet of a dancer upon the deck, the little murmur of applause.  Well, after all, this was life.  It was a rebuke of fate to his own illogical and useless vapourings.  Men died every second whilst women danced, and no one who knew life had any care save for the measure of their own days.  Some freakish thought pleaded stridently his own justification.  His mind travelled back down the gloomy avenues of his past, along those last aching years of grinding and undeserved poverty.  He remembered his upbringing, his widowed mother, a woman used to every luxury, struggling to make both ends meet in a suburban street, in a hired cottage filled with hired furniture.  He remembered his schooldays, devoid of pocket money, unable to join in the sports of others, slaving with melancholy perseverance for a scholarship to lighten his mother’s burden.  Always there was the same ghastly, crushing penuriousness, the struggle to make a living before his schooldays were well over, the unbought books he had fingered at the bookstalls and let drop again, the coarse clothes he had been compelled to wear, the scanty food he had eaten, the narrow, driving ways of poverty, culminating in his mother’s death and his own fear—­he, at the age of nineteen years—­lest the money for her funeral should not be forthcoming.  If there were any hell, surely he had lived in it!  This other, whose flames mocked him now, could be no worse.  Sin!  Crime!  He remembered the words of the girl who during these latter years had represented to him what there might have been of light in life.  He remembered, and it seemed to him that he could meet that ghostly image which had risen from the black waters, without shrinking, almost contemptuously.  Fate had mocked him long enough.  It was time, indeed, that he helped himself.

He swung away from the solitude to the other side of the steamer, paused in a sheltered spot while he lit a cigarette, and paced up and down the more frequented ways.  A soft voice from an invisible mass of furs and rugs, called to him.

“Mr. Romilly, please come and talk to me.  My rug has slipped—­thank you so much.  Take this chair next mine for a few minutes, won’t you?  Mr. Greene has rushed off to the smoking room.  I think he has just been told that there is a rival cinema producer on board, and he is trying to run him to ground.”

Philip settled himself without hesitation in the vacant place.

“One is forced to envy Mr. Raymond Greene,” he sighed.  “To have work in life which one loves as he does his is the rarest form of happiness.”

“What about your own?” she asked him.  “But you are a manufacturer, are you not?  Somehow or other, that surprises me.”