There was a pause; his meal was brought and hastily swallowed.  Even while he was eating it, he kept occasionally touching up the letters of these words.  When he had drunk a glass of ale he began again to write:  fluently this time, for he was giving an account of the plough.  Then came another long stop; he was weighing in his own mind what he should say about Kinraid.  Once he thought for a second of writing to Sylvia herself, and telling her—–­how much?  She might treasure up her lover’s words like grains of gold, while they were lighter than dust in their meaning to Philip’s mind; words which such as the specksioneer used as counters to beguile and lead astray silly women.  It was for him to prove his constancy by action; and the chances of his giving such proof were infinitesimal in Philip’s estimation.  But should the latter mention the bare fact of Kinraid’s impressment to Robson?  That would have been the natural course of things, remembering that the last time Philip had seen either, they were in each other’s company.  Twenty times he put his pen to the paper with the intention of relating briefly the event that had befallen Kinraid; and as often he stopped, as though the first word would be irrevocable.  While he thus sate pen in hand, thinking himself wiser than conscience, and looking on beyond the next step which she bade him take into an indefinite future, he caught some fragments of the sailors’ talk at the other end of the room, which made him listen to their words.  They were speaking of that very Kinraid, the thought of whom filled his own mind like an actual presence.  In a rough, careless way they spoke of the specksioneer, with admiration enough for his powers as a sailor and harpooner; and from that they passed on to jesting mention of his power amongst women, and one or two girls’ names were spoken of in connection with him.  Hepburn silently added Annie Coulson and Sylvia Robson to this list, and his cheeks turned paler as he did so.  Long after they had done speaking about Kinraid, after they had paid their shot, and gone away, he sate in the same attitude, thinking bitter thoughts.

The people of the house prepared for bed.  Their silent guest took no heed of their mute signs.  At length the landlord spoke to him, and he started, gathered his wits together with an effort, and prepared to retire with the rest.  But before he did so, he signed and directed the letter to his uncle, leaving it still open, however, in case some sudden feeling should prompt him to add a postscript.  The landlord volunteered the information that the letter his guest had been writing must be posted early the next morning if it was going south; as the mails in that direction only left Newcastle every other day.