‘I hate thought.’

’What do you say to Miss Bouverie’s last;—­“Ridden to a Standstill;” a little loud, perhaps, but very interesting?  Or “Green Grow the Rushes O,” by Mrs. Tremaine?  None of Mrs. Tremaine’s people do anything that anybody would do, but they all talk well.’

’I hate novels written by women.  Their girls are so unlovely, and their men such absurdly fine fellows!’

’I have William Coxe’s “Lock picked at Last,” of which I will defy you to find the secret till you have got to the end of it.’

‘I am a great deal too impatient.’

’And Thompson’s “Four Marquises.”  That won’t give you any trouble, because you will know it all from the first chapter.’

’And never have a moment of excitement from the beginning to the end.  I don’t think I care very much for novels.  Have you nothing else?’

Caldigate had many other books, a Shakespeare, some lighter poetry, and sundry heavier works of which he did not wish specially to speak, lest he should seem to be boasting of his own literary taste; but at last it was settled that on the next morning he should supply her with what choice he had among the poets.  Then at about midnight they parted, and Caldigate, as he found his way down to his cabin, saw the quartermaster with his eye fixed upon Mrs. Smith.  There is no so stern guardian of morality and propriety as your old quartermaster on board a first-class ship.

‘You have been having a grand time of it with Mrs. Smith,’ said Shand as soon as Caldigate was in their cabin.

’Pretty well,—­as far as fine times go on board ship.  Is there anything against it?’

’Oh, no, not that I know of.  I started the hare; if you choose to run it I have no right to complain, I suppose.’

’I don’t know anything about the hare, but you certainly have no right to complain because I have been talking to Mrs. Smith;—­unless indeed you tell me that you are going to make her Mrs. Shand.’

‘You are much more likely to make her Mrs. Caldigate.’

’I don’t know that I should have any objection;—­that is, if I wanted a wife.  She is good-looking, clever, well-educated, and would be well-mannered were it not that she bristles up against the ill-usage of the world too roughly.’

‘I didn’t know it had gone so far as that,’ said Shand, angrily.

’Nor did I, till you suggested it to me.  Now I think I’ll go to sleep, if you please, and dream about it.’

He did not go to sleep, but lay awake half thinking and half dreaming.  He certainly liked Mrs. Smith; but then, as he had begun to find out of himself he liked women’s society generally.  He was almost jealous of the doctor, because the doctor was allowed to talk to Miss Green and waltz with Miss Green, whereas he could not approach her.  Then he thought of Maria Shand and that kiss in the little back parlour,—­the kiss which had not meant much, but which had meant something; and then of Julia