“But the small child won’t cry any more for it,” she was saying.  “This is the last sob.  Some day, if Kinross doesn’t lose her, you’ll turn her over to your partner, I know.  And I won’t nag you any more.  Only I do hope you know how I feel.  It isn’t as if I’d merely bought the Martha, or merely built her.  I saved her.  I took her off the reef.  I saved her from the grave of the sea when fifty-five pounds was considered a big risk.  She is mine, peculiarly mine.  Without me she wouldn’t exist.  That big nor’wester would have finished her the first three hours it blew.  And then I’ve sailed her, too; and she is a witch, a perfect witch.  Why, do you know, she’ll steer by the wind with half a spoke, give and take.  And going about!  Well, you don’t have to baby her, starting head-sheets, flattening mainsail, and gentling her with the wheel.  Put your wheel down, and around she comes, like a colt with the bit in its teeth.  And you can back her like a steamer.  I did it at Langa-Langa, between that shoal patch and the shore-reef.  It was wonderful.

“But you don’t love boats like I do, and I know you think I’m making a fool of myself.  But some day I’m going to sail the Martha again.  I know it.  I know it.”

In reply, and quite without premeditation, his hand went out to hers, covering it as it lay on the railing.  But he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it was the boy that returned the pressure he gave, the boy sorrowing over the lost toy.  The thought chilled him.  Never had he been actually nearer to her, and never had she been more convincingly remote.  She was certainly not acutely aware that his hand was touching hers.  In her grief at the departure of the Martha it was, to her, anybody’s hand—­at the best, a friend’s hand.

He withdrew his hand and walked perturbedly away.

“Why hasn’t he got that big fisherman’s staysail on her?” she demanded irritably.  “It would make the old girl just walk along in this breeze.  I know the sort old Kinross is.  He’s the skipper that lies three days under double-reefed topsails waiting for a gale that doesn’t come.  Safe?  Oh, yes, he’s safe—­dangerously safe.”

Sheldon retraced his steps.

“Never mind,” he said.  “You can go sailing on the Martha any time you please—­recruiting on Malaita if you want to.”

It was a great concession he was making, and he felt that he did it against his better judgment.  Her reception of it was a surprise to him.

“With old Kinross in command?” she queried.  “No, thank you.  He’d drive me to suicide.  I couldn’t stand his handling of her.  It would give me nervous prostration.  I’ll never step on the Martha again, unless it is to take charge of her.  I’m a sailor, like my father, and he could never bear to see a vessel mishandled.  Did you see the way Kinross got under way?  It was disgraceful.  And the noise he made about it!  Old Noah did better with the Ark.”