“Still, he’s awfully clever,” the dancing water told her.  But she knew that he was not more clever than very many other people and that his cleverness had never been of any use except in getting money.

“He’s grown up—­a big, grown up man, and you’re only a girl,” said the soft, exhilarating breeze that sang in her hair.  And that thought allowed no answer, it was so flattering, so satisfying.

“And—­he needs me.  He says he’ll die without me,” she told herself, and that was unanswerable.

Suddenly she stood up and looked over the sea wall.  There seemed to be two Louis in her hands, being weighed and, all at once, she felt a little helpless and leaned rather heavily against the sea wall.

“It isn’t a bit of use.  I don’t honestly believe any of these things are the real reason I’m going to marry him.  I honestly believe I want to, so what’s the good of lying to myself about it?  But—­oh what an idiot I am!  It seems to me—­there’s something a bit degrading—­in marrying a man like Louis—­simply because—­because—­you want to.”

She walked round and round the big eucalyptus as though she were in a cage.  Then she came back and stood against the wall again, watching the sailors on the man-of-war with unseeing eyes.  She felt hot and flushed and a little ashamed of herself.  She felt that there was something rather disgraceful in wishing Louis were there to kiss her; something a little humiliating in longing so utterly that to-morrow might come when they could be together.

“I never, never, never thought I’d be such an idiot!  I thought I’d fall in love with a king, or something—­Oh my goodness, what a mess!” Her father came into her mind, striding giant-like over Ben Grief in his shabby old tweeds; she frowned and bit her lips and told herself, in bewilderment, that if only Louis had been like him she would have married him without any feeling of humiliation.  And she had the uncomfortable feeling that, had her father been alive, she would never have dared to marry Louis.  Andrew would have put him in the sea, or something equally final and ignominious.

She stared fixedly at the rippling water, with tight lips, and nodded her head at it.

“Yes, it’s perfectly disgusting.  It’s degrading—­it’s—­it’s beastly to be shutting myself up like this with a drunken man.  I believe I’d be better dead—­from a selfish point of view—­”

Next minute her eyes softened.

“But think how eager he is—­what a boy he is—­like Jimmy!  And how he trusts me not to let those awful miseries happen to him any more.”

She turned round, shook herself together and began to march back to the ship, her father’s eyes shining through hers for a while.

“Marcella Lashcairn,” she said solemnly, “you’re going to stop asking yourself rude questions for ever and ever, Amen!  You haven’t time to waste on introspection.  You love him.  That’s a good thing, anyway.  Never mind how you love him, never mind if it’s a John the Baptist love or a mother love or a fever produced by the tropics, as Wullie said, you’ve to do things as best you can and understand them afterwards, just trusting that God will burn out all the beastliness of them in the end.  And—­” she added, as an afterthought, “If he gets drunk I’ll shake the life out of him.”