“I wan’ my money,” he started.

“You’re not going to have it—­even if you try to get it with a sledge hammer, as you said you might,” she said, white lipped.

“You—­you—­you’re keeping it for yourself!”

“Don’t be such a fool, Louis.  You know why I’m keeping it.  If only you’d stop drinking for a day or two your mind would come clear and you’d talk to me.”

“Gi’ m’ my money, I tell you!  Thas’ why you hooked on to me, at first.  You knew I was a gentleman!  You guessed I’d plenty of money!  Thas’ what you want of me—­you know the Pater’s a well-known publisher, an’ you think you’ll do a good thing for yourself.”

Marcella had a hard fight then; something told her that this was not Louis speaking.  She remembered that he had told her that drinking was an illness.  When Mrs. Mactavish had fever she remembered how the people in the village had talked of the cruel things she had said to Mr. Mactavish and her sister, and it came to Marcella that Louis was no more to be blamed than she.  But her native temper made her quiver to take him and shake some sense in him, whether he were ill or not.  It was in a strained, quiet voice that she said: 

“I’m not going to talk any more about it.  You’ll get it when you say good-bye to me in Sydney,” and so she turned away.

Just as the Oriana sailed, about six o’clock she saw him come aboard alone.  His face was swollen, his eye blackened by a bruise; his collar was splashed with blood and his white drill suit very dirty and crumpled.  She had seen Ole Fred carried on board some time ago by sympathetic, rather maudlin friends.  She guessed that war had flamed up between the incongruous allies.  Mrs. Hetherington, rather breathlessly, confirmed her suspicion.

“He fought about you—­Ole Fred said you’d been in his cabin, and young Mr. Fame went for him,” she said enviously.

“Of course I’ve been in his cabin.  It’s Jimmy’s cabin—­I had to get Jimmy’s clean things,” she said indignantly.

Mrs. Hetherington put on an air of helpfulness.

“You should always be so careful, dearie.  I am.  Oh most careful!  I never let dear Mistah Petahs put more than the tip of his shoe over my doorway.  And as for going into his cabin—­My dear!  There is no need to provoke scandal; you will learn as you grow older to do things more discreetly.”

“Discreet!  I hate the word!  And Careful!  I couldn’t be careful!” she cried hotly, but Mrs. Hetherington tapped her playfully on the arm and turned away, murmuring, “Naughty, naughty!”