Malise. [Twisting the card] Let there be no mistake, sir; I do nothing that will help give her back to her husband.  She’s out to save her soul alive, and I don’t join the hue and cry that’s after her.  On the contrary—­if I had the power.  If your father wants to shelter her, that’s another matter.  But she’d her own ideas about that.

Huntingdon.  Perhaps you don’t realize how unfit my sister is for rough and tumble.  She’s not one of this new sort of woman.  She’s always been looked after, and had things done for her.  Pluck she’s got, but that’s all, and she’s bound to come to grief.

Malise.  Very likely—­the first birds do.  But if she drops half-way it’s better than if she’d never flown.  Your sister, sir, is trying the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market.  For women as for men, there’s more than one kind of dishonour, Captain Huntingdon, and worse things than being dead, as you may know in your profession.

Huntingdon.  Admitted—­but——­

Malise.  We each have our own views as to what they are.  But they all come to—­death of our spirits, for the sake of our carcases.  Anything more?

Huntingdon.  My leave’s up.  I sail to-morrow.  If you do see my sister I trust you to give her my love and say I begged she would see my father.

Malise.  If I have the chance—­yes.

     He makes a gesture of salute, to which Huntingdon responds. 
     Then the latter turns and goes out.

Malise.  Poor fugitive!  Where are you running now?

He stands at the window, through which the evening sunlight is powdering the room with smoky gold.  The stolid Boy has again come in.  Malise stares at him, then goes back to the table, takes up the Ms., and booms it at him; he receives the charge, breathing hard.

Malise.  “Man of the world—­product of a material age; incapable of perceiving reality in motions of the spirit; having ‘no use,’ as you would say, for ‘sentimental nonsense’; accustomed to believe yourself the national spine—­your position is unassailable.  You will remain the idol of the country—­arbiter of law, parson in mufti, darling of the playwright and the novelist—­God bless you!—­while waters lap these shores.”

     He places the sheets of Ms. in an envelope, and hands them to
     the Boy.

Malise.  You’re going straight back to “The Watchfire”?

Boy. [Stolidly] Yes, sir.

Malise. [Staring at him] You’re a masterpiece.  D’you know that?

Boy.  No, sir.

Malise.  Get out, then.