[Illustration:  “Captain Nugent.”]

He fared no better in Fullalove Alley, a visit to Mr. Wilks eliciting the fact that that delectable thoroughfare had been put out of bounds for Miss Nugent.  Moreover, Mr. Wilks was full of his own troubles and anxious for any comfort and advice that could be given to him.  All the alley knew that Mrs. Silk had quarrelled with her son over the steward, and, without knowing the facts, spoke their mind with painful freedom concerning them.

“She and Teddy don’t speak to each other now,” said Mr. Wilks, gloomily, “and to ’ear people talk you’d think it was my fault.”

Hardy gave him what comfort he could.  He even went the length of saying that Mrs. Silk was a fine woman.

“She acts like a suffering martyr,” exclaimed Mr. Wilks.  “She comes over ’ere dropping hints that people are talking about us, and that they ask ’er awkward questions.  Pretending to misunderstand ’er every time is enough to send me crazy; and she’s so sudden in what she says there’s no being up to ’er.  On’y this morning she asked me if I should be sorry if she died.”

“What did you say?” inquired his listener.

“I said ‘yes,’” admitted Mr. Wilks, reluctantly.  “I couldn’t say anything else; but I said that she wasn’t to let my feelings interfere with ’er in any way.”

Hardy’s father sailed a day or two later, and after that nothing happened.  Equator Lodge was an impregnable fortress, and the only member of the garrison he saw in a fortnight was Bella.

His depression did not escape the notice of his partner, who, after first advising love-philtres and then a visit to a well-known specialist for diseases of the heart, finally recommended more work, and put a generous portion of his own on to the young man’s desk.  Hardy, who was in an evil temper, pitched it on to the floor and, with a few incisive remarks on levity unbecoming to age, pursued his duties in gloomy silence.

A short time afterwards, however, he had to grapple with his partner’s work in real earnest.  For the first time in his life the genial shipbroker was laid up with a rather serious illness.  A chill caught while bathing was going the round of certain unsuspected weak spots, and the patient, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, was taking a greater interest in medical works than his doctor deemed advisable.

“Most interesting study,” he said, faintly, to Hardy, as the latter sat by his bedside one evening and tried to cheer him in the usual way by telling him that there was nothing the matter with him.  “There are dozens of different forms of liver complaint alone, and I’ve got ’em all.”

“Liver isn’t much,” said his visitor, with the confidence of youth.

“Mine is,” retorted the invalid; “it’s twice its proper size and still growing.  Base of the left lung is solidifying, or I’m much mistaken; the heart, instead of waltzing as is suitable to my time of life, is doing a galop, and everything else is as wrong as it can be.”