There was no resisting that.  And down at the bottom of my secret heart I was glad of the excuse to my conscience that I could not any longer run away from Martin because I was necessary to help him.

So we sat together all day long, and though it was like shooting the rapids to follow Martin’s impetuous and imaginative speech, I did my best to translate his disconnected outbursts into more connected words, and when the article was written and read aloud to him he was delighted.

“Stunning!  Didn’t I say you could write like Robinson Crusoe?”

In due course it was published and made a deep impression, for wherever I went people were talking of it, and though some said “Fudge!” and others, like my husband, said “Dreams!” the practical result was that the great newspaper started a public subscription with the object of providing funds for the realisation of Martin’s scheme.

This brought him an immense correspondence, so that every morning he came down with an armful of letters and piteous appeals to me to help him to reply to them.

I knew it would be dangerous to put myself in the way of so much temptation, but the end of it was that day after day we sat together in my sitting-room, answering the inquiries of the sceptical, the congratulations of the convinced, and the offers of assistance that came from people who wished to join in the expedition.

What a joy it was!  It was like the dawn of a new life to me.  But the highest happiness of all was to protect Martin against himself, to save him from his over-generous impulses—­in a word, to mother him.

Many of the letters he received were mere mendicancy.  He was not rich, yet he could not resist a pitiful appeal, especially if it came from a woman, and it was as much as I could do to restrain him from ruining himself.

Sometimes I would see him smuggle a letter into his side pocket, with—­

“H’m!  That will do later.”

“What is it?” I would ask.

“Oh, nothing, nothing!” he would answer.

“Hand it out, sir,” I would say, and then I would find a fierce delight in sending six freezing words of refusal to some impudent woman who was trying to play upon the tender side of my big-hearted boy.

Oh, it was delightful!  My whole being seemed to be renewed.  If only the dear sweet hours could go on and on for ever!

Sometimes my husband and Alma would look in upon us at our work, and then, while the colour mounted to my eyes, Martin would say: 

“I’m fishing with another man’s floats, you see.”

“I see,” my husband would reply, fixing his monocle and showing his front teeth in a painful grin.

“Just what dear Mary loves, though,” Alma would say.  “I do believe she would rather he sitting in this sunless room, writing letters for Mr. Conrad, than wearing her coronet at a King’s coronation.”

“Just so, ma’am; there are women like that,” Martin would answer, looking hard at her; and when she had gone, (laughing lightly but with the frightened look I had seen before) he would say, as if speaking to himself: