end and stockings at our ankles into the quiet room where she sat knitting fleecy white things by the table with the lamp, we expected nothing better than to be sent straight to bed, probably supperless.  Our grandmother laid down her knitting, took off her spectacles, and instead of the rebuke we expected and deserved said, “Bairns, come away in.  I’m sure you must be tired.”  It had been an unsuccessful day; we had found no treasure, not even the World’s End; the night had fallen damp, with an eerily sighing wind which depressed us vaguely as we trudged homewards; but now, the black night shut out, there was the fire-light and the lamp-light, the kind old voice, and the delicious sense of having come home.

All things considered, you are a young man greatly to be envied, also at the present moment to be scolded.  How can you possibly allow yourself to think such silly things?  You must have a most exaggerated idea of my charms if you think every man on board must be in love with me.  Men aren’t so impressionable.  Did you think that when my well-nigh unearthly beauty burst on them they would fall on their knees and with one voice exclaim, “Be mine!” I assure you no one has ever even thought of doing anything of the kind, and if they had I wouldn’t tell you.  I know you are only chaffing, but I do so hate all that sort of thing, and to hear people talk of their “conquests” is revolting.  One of the nicest things about G. is that she doesn’t care a bit to philander about with men.  She and I are much happier talking to each other, a fact which people seem to find hard to believe.

My attention is being diverted from my writing by a lady sitting a few yards away—­the Candle we call her because so many silly young moths hover round.  She is a buxom person, with very golden hair growing darker towards the roots, hard blue eyes, and a powdery white face.  G. and I are intensely interested to know what is the attraction about her, for no one can deny there is one.  She isn’t young; the gods have not made her fair, and I doubt of her honesty; yet from the first she has been surrounded by men—­most of them, I grant you, unfinished youths bound to offices in Calcutta, but still men.  I thought it might be her brilliant conversation, but for the last half-hour I have listened,—­indeed we have no choice but to listen, the voices are so strident,—­and it can’t be that, because it isn’t brilliant or even amusing, unless to call men names like Pyjamas, or Fatty, or Tubby, and slap them playfully at intervals is amusing.  A few minutes ago Mrs. Crawley came to sit with us looking so fresh in a white linen dress.  I don’t know why it is—­she wears the simplest clothes, and yet she manages to make all the other women look dowdy.  She has the gift, too, of knowing the right thing to wear on every occasion.  At Port Said, for instance, the costumes were varied.  The Candle flopped on shore in a trailing white lace dress and an enormous hat; some broiled in serge coats