The Master-Attendant, plunging his hands into the pockets of an alpaca jacket inappropriately short and tight for a man of his age and appearance, strutted with a slight limp, and with his head reaching only to the shoulder of Captain Whalley, who walked easily, staring straight before him.  They had been good comrades years ago, almost intimates.  At the time when Whalley commanded the renowned Condor, Eliott had charge of the nearly as famous Ringdove for the same owners; and when the appointment of Master-Attendant was created, Whalley would have been the only other serious candidate.  But Captain Whalley, then in the prime of life, was resolved to serve no one but his own auspicious Fortune.  Far away, tending his hot irons, he was glad to hear the other had been successful.  There was a worldly suppleness in bluff Ned Eliott that would serve him well in that sort of official appointment.  And they were so dissimilar at bottom that as they came slowly to the end of the avenue before the Cathedral, it had never come into Whalley’s head that he might have been in that man’s place—­provided for to the end of his days.

The sacred edifice, standing in solemn isolation amongst the converging avenues of enormous trees, as if to put grave thoughts of heaven into the hours of ease, presented a closed Gothic portal to the light and glory of the west.  The glass of the rosace above the ogive glowed like fiery coal in the deep carvings of a wheel of stone.  The two men faced about.

“I’ll tell you what they ought to do next, Whalley,” growled Captain Eliott suddenly.

“Well?”

“They ought to send a real live lord out here when Sir Frederick’s time is up.  Eh?”

Captain Whalley perfunctorily did not see why a lord of the right sort should not do as well as anyone else.  But this was not the other’s point of view.

“No, no.  Place runs itself.  Nothing can stop it now.  Good enough for a lord,” he growled in short sentences.  “Look at the changes in our time.  We need a lord here now.  They have got a lord in Bombay.”

He dined once or twice every year at the Government House—­a many-windowed, arcaded palace upon a hill laid out in roads and gardens.  And lately he had been taking about a duke in his Master-Attendant’s steam-launch to visit the harbor improvements.  Before that he had “most obligingly” gone out in person to pick out a good berth for the ducal yacht.  Afterwards he had an invitation to lunch on board.  The duchess herself lunched with them.  A big woman with a red face.  Complexion quite sunburnt.  He should think ruined.  Very gracious manners.  They were going on to Japan. . . .

He ejaculated these details for Captain Whalley’s edification, pausing to blow out his cheeks as if with a pent-up sense of importance, and repeatedly protruding his thick lips till the blunt crimson end of his nose seemed to dip into the milk of his mustache.  The place ran itself; it was fit for any lord; it gave no trouble except in its Marine department—­in its Marine department he repeated twice, and after a heavy snort began to relate how the other day her Majesty’s Consul-General in French Cochin-China had cabled to him—­in his official capacity—­asking for a qualified man to be sent over to take charge of a Glasgow ship whose master had died in Saigon.