“The very next time you mention my father I’ll put you in the sea.”

Louis was trembling and staring at her, his mouth open.  The schoolmaster was the first to speak.

“I regret this,” he began, and stopped, coughing.

“Just you shut the ’ole in yer fice,” growled Ole Fred. Then, turning to Louis, he became maudlinly soothing.  “Look ’ere, mate, no young lady likes to hear her father spoke of rough—­even if he ain’t her father, as the saying goes.  I do’ know what the rah’s abaht, but y’ know, ole chap, no man should make sin—­sin—­sinuation he can’t prove—­in black an’ white.”  He looked from one to the other with engaging earnestness.  “Life’s—­life’s—­slife’s too short to quarrel, hearts are too precious to break, so shake hands and kissh and kiss and be frien’s, for ole time’s sake.”

He was so overcome by the pathos of his own eloquence that he began to sob brokenly, clinging to the red-haired man.  “We alwiz bin mates, ain’t we?” he added, trying to shake hands with him.  Fired by his example, Louis made a grab at Marcella.  He had entirely forgotten his fright, his shame of a moment ago.

“Thass ri’, Marsh—­Marcella.  Kith—­kith—­kisssh an’ be fren’s!  Ah, oui, oui, n’est ce pas?  Ole Fred—­no, no, Ole girl—­voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

She looked at him, frowning.  The unusual words—­she had never heard French words before—­worried her:  she never afterwards was able to hear French without an acute sense of discomfort.  He was smiling at her with open mouth and wet eyes.  She came quite close to him:  he cringed unconsciously, and then lifted his face, expecting her to kiss him.  Instead, she said in a low voice, close to his ear: 

“You asked me to help you, Louis.  Do you know the best way to help you?”

“Kith—­baisez-moi—­ah, oui, oui.”

“The best way to help you is to drown you.  You’re—­you’re not fit to live!  Oh, you’re a perfect idiot!”

She turned and ran down below.  Dimly she heard the schoolmaster say, “Very foolish to talk to an intoxicated man”; she heard the same boy who had begged her vine leaves singing his passionate love song to the tinkling music of his guitar and the lapping water.  Then she was below deck, making blindly for her cabin.

At the door of Number 15 she was arrested by Jimmy.  He was standing in the doorway, his head well back, his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Marcella!” he whispered proudly.  “Look!”

She made herself conscious of him and looked.  On the outer bunk was a crumpled mass of clothing that was heaving up and down and snoring loudly.

“He’s there all right.  I got him up when he wanted to be on the floor.  He pinched my arm fearful.  He’s very strong, my Daddy is!  He didn’t pinch it on purpose, he couldn’t help it.”

Pushing back the sleeve of his jersey, he showed her a red mark as a soldier might show his scars.