of her mind:  “drunk as a lord” was one of them.  “That’s how father used to be,” and a queer sort of pride in him followed.  After all, there was something in being a lord, even in drunkenness!  But this foolish, grinning, damp-mouthed thing before her, who kept making ineffectual attempts to lift his hand to his head and take off his hat, who was coming closer towards her with the inadequate movements she had once seen made by a duck when its leg had been broken!—­

“H’lo, ole girl!” he said, standing before her at last.  “Parlez-vous Franshay?  Ah, oui, oui!  Give—­kith, ole girl!”

“You’d better go below, Miss Lashcairn,” said the schoolmaster in a low voice.  “It’s no use talking to an intoxicated man.”

She knew he was speaking, but she felt mesmerized by Louis, and shook her head impatiently, never taking her eyes for an instant from the boy’s dribbling mouth.

“Give’s—­kith—­kith—­kisssh,” he said solemnly after a great effort, managing to close his mouth.  “Baisez-moi—­ole girl!  Ah, oui, oui!  Ole girl—­I shay, ole girl—­voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

He caught her arm and held it tight, grinning into her face.  She stood with set face, trembling.

“What does he mean?” she asked the schoolmaster, who was looking distressed.

“He is speaking French—­I—­don’t quite”—­he coughed nervously—­“I don’t quite understand him—­it isn’t classical French.  But I should go below.  He will be better to-morrow.”

Louis turned to him solemnly, his jaws working.

“G-g-go to—­school!” he cried, and giggled helplessly.  “You w-w-white-livered k-k-kidpuncher!  Are you after her yourself?  G-god damn you, you’re always sniffing about after her.”

“I wish you would go below,” said the schoolmaster.  “Men when intoxicated say things unfit for the ears of young ladies.  You go away and leave him to me, Miss Lashcairn.”

“Louis, you trusted me to take care of you,” she said in a low voice.

He laughed hysterically until tears ran down his cheeks.

“Thass ri’, ole girl!  Trus’ take care of me!  Nashly!  Father drunkard—­father dead drunkard!  Nash’ly ta’ care poor little Louis.”

Ole Fred and the red-haired man had made immediately for the bar, but finding it closed had come back to claim Louis.  They saw the schoolmaster’s white face and Louis’s passionate gestures; they scented a fight, and hoped for it.

“Wan’ ’ny ’elp, mate?” cried Ole Fred, putting up his fists.

Marcella did not see them.  She saw her father standing by his bed, holding on to the post, praying for courage.  Something in her brain gave a little snap like a fiddle string breaking, and, taking Louis by both shoulders, she shook him violently.  His head wobbled about loosely.  He was terrified, and so were the others.  Ole Fred had seen girls and women resort to physical argument:  in his world of the East End it was quite common, but he was rather surprised to see a “young lady” do it.  Nor had they ever imagined it possible for such a blaze of anger to scorch anyone as shone in her eyes, vibrated in her voice as she loosed him, quite breathless, propped him against the rail and said, very quietly: