As he came near he perceived the remains of his useless document.  He stooped and gathered them up, forthwith throwing them among the glowing logs.

“By the way, what were you writing whilst I had my bath?” inquired Iris, demurely.

“Some information about the mine.  On second thoughts, however, I saw it was unnecessary.”

“Oh, was that all?”

“Practically all.”

“Then some part was impracticable?”

He glanced sharply at her, but she was merely talking at random.

“Well, you see,” he explained, “one can do so little without the requisite plant.  This sort of ore requires a crushing-mill, a smelting furnace, perhaps big tanks filled with cyanide of potassium.”

“And, of course, although you can do wonders, you cannot provide all those things, can you?”

Jenks deemed this query to be unanswerable.

They were busy again until night fell.  Sitting down for a little while before retiring to rest, they discussed, for the hundredth time, the probabilities of speedy succor.  This led them to the topic of available supplies, and the sailor told Iris the dispositions he had made.

“Did you bury the box of books?” she asked.

“Yes, but not in the cave.  They are at the foot of the cinchona over there.  Why?  Do you want any?”

“I have a Bible in my room, but there was a Tennyson among the others which I glanced at in spare moments.”

The sailor thanked the darkness that concealed the deep bronze of face and neck caused by this chance remark.  He vaguely recollected the manner in which the lines from “Maud” came to his lips after the episode of the letter.  Was it possible that he had unknowingly uttered them aloud and Iris was now slily poking fun at him?  He glowed with embarrassment.

“It is odd that you should mention Tennyson,” he managed to say calmly.  “Only today I was thinking of a favorite passage.”

Iris, of course, was quite innocent this time.

“Oh, do tell me.  Was it from ’Enoch Arden’?”

He gave a sigh of relief.  “No.  Anything but that,” he answered.

“What then?”

“‘Maud.’”

“Oh, ‘Maud.’  It is very beautiful, but I could never imagine why the poet gave such a sad ending to an idyllic love story.”

“They too often end that way.  Moreover, ‘Enoch Arden’ is not what you might call exhilarating.”

“No.  It is sad.  I have often thought he had the ‘Sonata Pathetique’ in his mind when he wrote it.  But the note is mournful all through.  There is no promise of happiness as in ‘Maud.’”

“Then it is my turn to ask questions.  Why did you hit upon that poem among so many?”

“Because it contains an exact description of our position here.  Don’t you remember how the poor fellow

  “’Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,
  A shipwrecked sailor, waiting for a sail.’