“However,” said Mr. Gilman, “he’s not much use to me personally.  He doesn’t understand liver.  Scotsmen never do.  Fortunately, I have a very good doctor in Paris.  I prefer French doctors.  And I’m sure they’re right on the great liver question.  All English doctors tell you to take plenty of violent exercise if you want to shake off a liver attack.  Quite wrong.  Too much exercise tires the body and so it tires the liver as well—­obviously.  What’s the result?  You can see, can’t you?  The liver works worse than ever.  Now, a French doctor will advise complete rest until the attack is over. Then exercise, if you like; but not before.  Of course, you don’t know you’ve got a liver, and I dare say you think it’s very odd of me to talk about my liver.  I’m sure you do.”

“I don’t, honestly.  I like you to talk like that.  It’s very interesting.”  And she thought:  “Suppose Tommy was wrong, after all! ...  She’s very spiteful.”

“That’s you all over, Mrs. Moncreiff.  You understand men far better than any other woman I ever saw, unless, perhaps, it’s Madame Piriac.”

“Oh, Mr. Gilman!  How can you say such a thing?”

“It’s not the first time you’ve heard it, I wager!” said Mr. Gilman.  “And it won’t be the last!  Any man who knows women can see at once that you are one of the women who understand.  Otherwise, do you imagine I should have begun upon my troubles?”

Now, at any rate, he was sincere—­she was convinced of that.  And he looked very smart as he spied the horizon for lights and peered at the compass, and moved the wheel at intervals with a strong, accustomed gesture.  And, assuredly, he looked very experienced.  Audrey blushed.  She just had to believe that there must be something in what he said concerning her talent.  She had noticed it herself several times.

In an interval of the music the sea washed with a long sound against the bow of the yacht; then silence.

“I do love that sudden wash against the yacht,” said Audrey.

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Gilman, “so do I. All doctors tell me that I should be better if I gave up yachting.  But I won’t.  I couldn’t.  Whatever it costs in health, yachting’s worth it.”

“Oh!  It must be!” cried Audrey, with enthusiasm.  “I’ve never been on a yacht before, but I quite agree with you.  I feel as if I could live on a yacht for ever—­always going to new places, you know; that’s how I feel.”

“You do?” Mr. Gilman exclaimed and gazed at her for a moment with a sort of ecstasy.  Audrey instinctively checked herself.  “There’s a freemasonry among those who like yachting.”  His eyes returned to the compass.  “I’ve kept your secret.  I’ve kept it like something precious.  I’ve enjoyed keeping it.  It’s been a comfort to me.  Now I wonder if you’ll do the same for me, Mrs. Moncreiff?”

“Do what?” Audrey asked weakly, intimidated.

“Keep a secret.  I shouldn’t dream of telling it to Madame Piriac.  Will you?  May I tell you?”