Heemskirk did not look up.  Ensconced in the rocking-chair, and puffing at a cheroot, he had the air of meditating surlily over some odious outbreak.  So at least it seemed to Freya.  Old Nelson said at once:  “I’ll stroll down with you.”  He had begun a professional conversation about the dangers of the New Guinea coast, and wanted to relate to Jasper some experience of his own “over there.”  Jasper was such a good listener!  Freya made as if to accompany them, but her father frowned, shook his head, and nodded significantly towards the immovable Heemskirk blotting out smoke with half-closed eyes and protruded lips.  The lieutenant must not be left alone.  Take offence, perhaps.

Freya obeyed these signs.  “Perhaps it is better for me to stay,” she thought.  Women are not generally prone to review their own conduct, still less to condemn it.  The embarrassing masculine absurdities are in the main responsible for its ethics.  But, looking at Heemskirk, Freya felt regret and even remorse.  His thick bulk in repose suggested the idea of repletion, but as a matter of fact he had eaten very little.  He had drunk a great deal, however.  The fleshy lobes of his unpleasant big ears with deeply folded rims were crimson.  They quite flamed in the neighbourhood of the flat, sallow cheeks.  For a considerable time he did not raise his heavy brown eyelids.  To be at the mercy of such a creature was humiliating; and Freya, who always ended by being frank with herself, thought regretfully:  “If only I had been open with papa from the first!  But then what an impossible life he would have led me!” Yes.  Men were absurd in many ways; lovably like Jasper, impracticably like her father, odiously like that grotesquely supine creature in the chair.  Was it possible to talk him over?  Perhaps it was not necessary?  “Oh!  I can’t talk to him,” she thought.  And when Heemskirk, still without looking at her, began resolutely to crush his half-smoked cheroot on the coffee-tray, she took alarm, glided towards the piano, opened it in tremendous haste, and struck the keys before she sat down.

In an instant the verandah, the whole carpetless wooden bungalow raised on piles, became filled with an uproarious, confused resonance.  But through it all she heard, she felt on the floor the heavy, prowling footsteps of the lieutenant moving to and fro at her back.  He was not exactly drunk, but he was sufficiently primed to make the suggestions of his excited imagination seem perfectly feasible and even clever; beautifully, unscrupulously clever.  Freya, aware that he had stopped just behind her, went on playing without turning her head.  She played with spirit, brilliantly, a fierce piece of music, but when his voice reached her she went cold all over.  It was the voice, not the words.  The insolent familiarity of tone dismayed her to such an extent that she could not understand at first what he was saying.  His utterance was thick, too.