flesh and blood, expressed in shape, in size, in attitude—­that is by a straight appeal to the senses.  His mind meantime, preoccupied with respectability, quailed before Schomberg’s tongue and seemed absolutely impervious to my protestations; and I went so far as to protest that I would just as soon think of marrying my mother’s (dear old lady!) faithful female cook as Hermann’s niece.  Sooner, I protested, in my desperation, much sooner; but it did not appear that he saw anything outrageous in the proposition, and in his sceptical immobility he seemed to nurse the argument that at all events the cook was very, very far away.  It must be said that, just before, I had gone wrong by appealing to the evidence of my manner whenever I called on board the Diana.  I had never attempted to approach the girl, or to speak to her, or even to look at her in any marked way.  Nothing could be clearer.  But, as his own idea of—­let us say—­courting, seemed to consist precisely in sitting silently for hours in the vicinity of the beloved object, that line of argument inspired him with distrust.  Staring down his extended legs he let out a grunt—­as much as to say, “That’s all very fine, but you can’t throw dust in my eyes.”

At last I was exasperated into saying, “Why don’t you put the matter at rest by talking to Hermann?” and I added sneeringly:  “You don’t expect me perhaps to speak for you?”

To this he said, very loud for him, “Would you?”

And for the first time he lifted his head to look at me with wonder and incredulity.  He lifted his head so sharply that there could be no mistake.  I had touched a spring.  I saw the whole extent of my opportunity, and could hardly believe in it.

“Why.  Speak to . . .  Well, of course,” I proceeded very slowly, watching him with great attention, for, on my word, I feared a joke.  “Not, perhaps, to the young lady herself.  I can’t speak German, you know.  But . . .”

He interrupted me with the earnest assurance that Hermann had the highest opinion of me; and at once I felt the need for the greatest possible diplomacy at this juncture.  So I demurred just enough to draw him on.  Falk sat up, but except for a very noticeable enlargement of the pupils, till the irises of his eyes were reduced to two narrow yellow rings, his face, I should judge, was incapable of expressing excitement.  “Oh, yes!  Hermann did have the greatest . . .”

“Take up your cards.  Here’s Schomberg peeping at us through the blind!” I said.

We went through the motions of what might have been a game of e’carte’.  Presently the intolerable scandalmonger withdrew, probably to inform the people in the billiard-room that we two were gambling on the verandah like mad.

We were not gambling, but it was a game; a game in which I felt I held the winning cards.  The stake, roughly speaking, was the success of the voyage—­for me; and he, I apprehended, had nothing to lose.  Our intimacy matured rapidly, and before many words had been exchanged I perceived that the excellent Hermann had been making use of me.  That simple and astute Teuton had been, it seems, holding me up to Falk in the light of a rival.  I was young enough to be shocked at so much duplicity.  “Did he tell you that in so many words?” I asked with indignation.