“Have I changed my very modest scheme of life?  Miss Clifford, as you are so good as to be sufficiently interested, I will tell you.  It is because a temptation which hitherto I have been able to resist, has during the last thirty minutes become too strong for me.  You know everything has its breaking strain.”  He puffed nervously at his cigar, threw it into the sea, paused, then went on:  “Miss Clifford, I have dared to fall in love with you.  No; hear me out.  When I have done it will be quite time enough to give me the answer that I expect.  Meanwhile, for the first time in my life, allow me the luxury of being in earnest.  To me it is a new sensation, and therefore very priceless.  May I go on?”

Benita made no answer.  He rose with a certain deliberateness which characterized all his movements—­for Robert Seymour never seemed to be in a hurry—­and stood in front of her so that the moonlight shone upon her face, while his own remained in shadow.

“Beyond that L2,000 of which I have spoken, and incidentally its owner, I have nothing whatsoever to offer to you.  I am an indigent and worthless person.  Even in my prosperous days, when I could look forward to a large estate, although it was often suggested to me, I never considered myself justified in asking any lady to share—­the prospective estate.  I think now that the real reason was that I never cared sufficiently for any lady, since otherwise my selfishness would probably have overcome my scruples, as it does to-night.  Benita, for I will call you so, if for the first and last time, I—­I—­love you.

“Listen now,” he went on, dropping his measured manner, and speaking hurriedly, like a man with an earnest message and little time in which to deliver it, “it is an odd thing, an incomprehensible thing, but true, true—­I fell in love with you the first time I saw your face.  You remember, you stood there leaning over the bulwark when I came on board at Southampton, and as I walked up the gangway, I looked and my eyes met yours.  Then I stopped, and that stout old lady who got off at Madeira bumped into me, and asked me to be good enough to make up my mind if I were going backward or forward.  Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she answered in a low voice.

“Which things are an allegory,” he continued.  “I felt it so at the time.  Yes, I had half a mind to answer ‘Backward’ and give up my berth in this ship.  Then I looked at you again, and something inside of me said ‘Forward.’  So I came up the rest of the gangway and took off my hat to you, a salutation I had no right to make, but which, I recall, you acknowledged.”