She turned away towards Louis again.  He cowered as she came near him.  She smiled at him kindly and reassuringly.

“Poor little boy!  You needn’t be frightened of Marcella.  She doesn’t often put wicked ole men in the sea,” she said gently, holding out her hand to help him to his feet.  Before she had put Fred in the sea she had felt it would be much better to go herself than live with Louis any more.  But the flood of madness ebbed; Louis’s cowering as she came near him seemed to her so appalling, so appealing that she could not leave him, and her hatred of Fred made her set her teeth and determine not to let him have Louis.

No one spoke.  The cab driver was looking at her with adoration in his eyes; looking round she guessed he was a friend.

“Have you all our luggage?” she asked him.

“Yes, ma—­missus,” he jerked, jumping and suddenly touching his hat—­an epoch-making thing for an Australian to do.

“Will you help me get my husband to the cab then, please?”

“Aren’t you going to wait and see if they fish him out, missus?” he asked hopefully, jerking his head over towards the companion-way, down which several sailors had vanished.

“It’s no use,” she said impatiently.  “He isn’t a bit of good.  If he’s dead all the better.  He’s a very, very wicked man, you know.  He’s not just weak and wobbly.  He is so wicked and dreadful that he laughs at people when they try to be good, and fights the goodness.  Naturally it’s better to put him in the sea.  If it was a few hundred years ago they’d burn him as a devil,” she nodded reassuringly to the cabman.

“There are sharks in Sydney Harbour, too,” she added reflectively.

“Oh cripes!” cried the cabman reverently.  “Come on then, boss,” he added, turning to Louis.  “Heave hold of my shoulder.  If old monkey face is drowned your missus’ll hear sharp enough from the police.”

Suddenly she ran back to the companion-way.  She did not look to see where Ole Fred was.  Keeping her eyes averted she called, “Good-bye, Knollys.  Thank you for being so kind to me.”

Then she took Louis’s hand without a word.  He stood immovable.

“Feel sh-shick, ole girl,” he gasped.

She stood still, feeling sick, too.

“Go on, ma—­I’ll tend him,” said the cabman.  Marcella walked on with her head in the air, looking disgusted.  After a few minutes she turned and saw the cabman struggling to drag him along.  His legs lagged foolishly.

“Can’t walk, ole girl.  Legs all cross-nibbed, ole girl,” he moaned.

“You’re not to talk, Louis,” she said calmly.

“Talk?  Talk?  Can’t talk.  Parlez-vous Franshay, Marsh-shella?  Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?  Baisez-moi, ma petite—!”

She faced him suddenly.

“Look here, Louis.  If you talk French one of us goes in the harbour.  I’d rather it was me.  Either that or I’ll take my hands and choke you. You know they’re strong hands—­made in Scotland, Louis—­bony, not a bit wobbly.  Now what do you think?”