“Do you mean that you owe Ole Fred money?”

“Of c—­course.  How on earth have I managed since N-naples?”

“How much is it?”

“He’s paid for a lot of drinks, but that doesn’t count.  I w-won a good bit at poker, too.  I b-borrowed sixteen pounds from him.”

“But, Louis, you hadn’t sixteen pounds to pay him back with,” she cried.

“Do you think I cared?  Do you think I ever meant to pay him back?  Anyway, he’s helped spend it, and when we get to Sydney I shan’t have to face him again, so I don’t care a damn.  I’ve g-given my credit note for ten pounds when I land to—­to—­the barman, too.  I’m b-broke, ole girl.”

He sobbed helplessly.

“He offered me the money.  People always do.  They all think I’m well off when I tell them who the pater is.  And so I should be if he wasn’t such a stingy old devil.”

His sobbing ceased, his face looked hard and cynical again.  Marcella watched him in amazement.  She was not sure whether to be disgusted with him or sorry for him.

At last she spoke.

“Louis—­I don’t understand a bit.  Why did you do it?”

“Because he said rude things about you!  He hates you!  I only made him my enemy for your sake—­and now you won’t let me cut adrift from him.  That’s just like all women!  Once they get their claws on money there’s no getting them off again.”

“I’m not asking why you fought him, you idiot.  I’m asking you why you made such an idiotic mess of things at Naples.”

He sobbed for awhile, sitting on the floor, leaning his head on her trunk where the broken lock dangled.  She laid her hand on his head with an incontrollable impulse of pity; his hair was matted and dull as though it, had not been brushed for years.

“I c-can’t explain it, even to myself, Marcella.  But I—­I th-think it w-was because I g-got a bit huffy with the idea th-that I was depending on you for everything.  I f-felt as if I was tied to your apron strings.  I felt as if I was being a g-good little b-b-boy, you know.  So I thought I’d kick a bit!  But I w-was trying damned hard before.  You know I was.”

She knit her brows and said, very slowly, as though she had not known the end of the sentence when she began to speak.

“Louis—­don’t you—­perhaps—­think it’s wrong—­to try so hard?  I mean, it’s morbid to be always saying ’I’m a drunkard.  If I don’t keep myself keyed up every minute I’ll fall—­’ Don’t you think it would be better if you forgot all about it, and just said, ’I’m Louis Farne, the biggest thing that ever was in the annals of humanity.’  I don’t know, but that seems more sensible to me.  You see, you’re rather a self-willed sort of person, really.  You like to have you own way.  Then why on earth not have your own way with whisky.”

He stared at her and started in surprise, his jaw dropping.  She looked at the streaks of dust and blood on his face, through which his tears had made blurred runnels.