the slightest hints, preferred to look upon himself as the victim not of a swindle but of a rough man naively engaged in a contest with heaven’s injustice.  D’Alcacer did not examine his heart, but some lines of a French poet came into his mind, to the effect that in all times those who fought with an unjust heaven had possessed the secret admiration and love of men.  He didn’t go so far as love but he could not deny to himself that his feeling toward Lingard was secretly friendly and—­well, appreciative.  Mr. Travers sat up suddenly.  What a horrible nuisance, thought d’Alcacer, fixing his eyes on the tips of his shoes with the hope that perhaps the other would lie down again.  Mr. Travers spoke.

“Still up, d’Alcacer?”

“I assure you it isn’t late.  It’s dark at six, we dined before seven, that makes the night long and I am not a very good sleeper; that is, I cannot go to sleep till late in the night.”

“I envy you,” said Mr. Travers, speaking with a sort of drowsy apathy.  “I am always dropping off and the awakenings are horrible.”

D’Alcacer, raising his eyes, noticed that Mrs. Travers and Lingard had vanished from the light.  They had gone to the rail where d’Alcacer could not see them.  Some pity mingled with his vexation at Mr. Travers’ snatchy wakefulness.  There was something weird about the man, he reflected.  “Jorgenson,” he began aloud.

“What’s that?” snapped Mr. Travers.

“It’s the name of that lanky old store-keeper who is always about the decks.”

“I haven’t seen him.  I don’t see anybody.  I don’t know anybody.  I prefer not to notice.”

“I was only going to say that he gave me a pack of cards; would you like a game of piquet?”

“I don’t think I could keep my eyes open,” said Mr. Travers in an unexpectedly confidential tone.  “Isn’t it funny, d’Alcacer?  And then I wake up.  It’s too awful.”

D’Alcacer made no remark and Mr. Travers seemed not to have expected any.

“When I said my wife was mad,” he began, suddenly, causing d’Alcacer to start, “I didn’t mean it literally, of course.”  His tone sounded slightly dogmatic and he didn’t seem to be aware of any interval during which he had appeared to sleep.  D’Alcacer was convinced more than ever that he had been shamming, and resigned himself wearily to listen, folding his arms across his chest.  “What I meant, really,” continued Mr. Travers, “was that she is the victim of a craze.  Society is subject to crazes, as you know very well.  They are not reprehensible in themselves, but the worst of my wife is that her crazes are never like those of the people with whom she naturally associates.  They generally run counter to them.  This peculiarity has given me some anxiety, you understand, in the position we occupy.  People will begin to say that she is eccentric.  Do you see her anywhere, d’Alcacer?”

D’Alcacer was thankful to be able to say that he didn’t see Mrs. Travers.  He didn’t even hear any murmurs, though he had no doubt that everybody on board the Emma was wide awake by now.  But Mr. Travers inspired him with invincible mistrust and he thought it prudent to add: