At any rate, she did not look the part.  And that was what he could not forgive.  Had she been short-haired, heavy-jawed, large-muscled, hard-bitten, and utterly unlovely in every way, all would have been well.  Instead of which she was hopelessly and deliciously feminine.  Her hair worried him, it was so generously beautiful.  And she was so slenderly and prettily the woman—­the girl, rather—­that it cut him like a knife to see her, with quick, comprehensive eyes and sharply imperative voice, superintend the launching of the whale-boat through the surf.  In imagination he could see her roping a horse, and it always made him shudder.  Then, too, she was so many-sided.  Her knowledge of literature and art surprised him, while deep down was the feeling that a girl who knew such things had no right to know how to rig tackles, heave up anchors, and sail schooners around the South Seas.  Such things in her brain were like so many oaths on her lips.  While for such a girl to insist that she was going on a recruiting cruise around Malaita was positive self-sacrilege.

He always perturbedly harked back to her feminineness.  She could play the piano far better than his sisters at home, and with far finer appreciation—­the piano that poor Hughie had so heroically laboured over to keep in condition.  And when she strummed the guitar and sang liquid, velvety Hawaiian hulas, he sat entranced.  Then she was all woman, and the magic of sex kidnapped the irritations of the day and made him forget the big revolver, the Baden-Powell, and all the rest.  But what right, the next thought in his brain would whisper, had such a girl to swagger around like a man and exult that adventure was not dead?  Woman that adventured were adventuresses, and the connotation was not nice.  Besides, he was not enamoured of adventure.  Not since he was a boy had it appealed to him—­though it would have driven him hard to explain what had brought him from England to the Solomons if it had not been adventure.

Sheldon certainly was not happy.  The unconventional state of affairs was too much for his conservative disposition and training.  Berande, inhabited by one lone white man, was no place for Joan Lackland.  Yet he racked his brain for a way out, and even talked it over with her.  In the first place, the steamer from Australia was not due for three weeks.

“One thing is evident:  you don’t want me here,” she said.  “I’ll man the whale-boat to-morrow and go over to Tulagi.”

“But as I told you before, that is impossible,” he cried.  “There is no one there.  The Resident Commissioner is away in Australia.  Them is only one white man, a third assistant understrapper and ex-sailor—­a common sailor.  He is in charge of the government of the Solomons, to say nothing of a hundred or so niggers—­prisoners.  Besides, he is such a fool that he would fine you five pounds for not having entered at Tulagi, which is the port of entry, you know.  He is not a nice man, and, I repeat, it is impossible.”