You have no right to say such a thing.”

“We have each of us but one life to live.”

“And one life to ruin,” she answered.  “See, you are running on the rocks!”

He swung the boat around.

“Others have rebuilt upon ruins,” he declared.

She smiled at him.

“But you are taking my ruins for granted,” she said.  “You would make them first.”

He relapsed into silence again.  The Folly needed watching.  Once he turned and spoke her name, and she did not rebuke him.

“Women have a clearer vision of the future than men,” she began presently, “and I know you better than you know yourself.  What—­what you desire would not mend your life, but break it utterly.  I am speaking plainly.  As I have told you, you interest me; so far that is the extent of my feelings.  I do not know whether they would go any farther, but on your account as well as my own I will not take the risk.  We have come to an impasse.  I am sorry.  I wish we might have been friends, but what you have said makes it impossible.  There is only one thing to do, and that is for you to go away.”

He eased off his sheet, rounded the fort, and set a course for the moorings.  The sun hung red above the silhouetted roofs of Conanicut, and a quaint tower in the shape of a minaret stood forth to cap the illusions of a day.

The wind was falling, the harbour quieting for the night, and across the waters, to the tones of a trumpet, the red bars of the battleship’s flag fluttered to the deck.  The Folly, making a wide circle, shot into the breeze, and ended by gliding gently up to the buoy.

CHAPTER V

THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

It was Saturday morning, but Honora had forgotten the fact.  Not until she was on the bottom step did the odour of cigarettes reach her and turn her faint; and she clutched suddenly at the banisters.  Thus she stood for a while, motionless, and then went quietly into the drawing-room.  The French windows looking out on the porch were, as usual, open.

It was an odd sensation thus to be regarding one’s husband objectively.  For the first time he appeared to her definitely as a stranger; as much a stranger as the man who came once a week to wind Mrs. Forsythe’s clocks.  Nay, more.  There was a sense of intrusion in this visit, of invasion of a life with which he had nothing to do.  She examined him ruthlessly, very much as one might examine a burglar taken unawares.  There was the inevitable shirt with the wide pink stripes, of the abolishment or even of the effective toning down of which she had long since despaired.  On the contrary, like his complexion, they evinced a continual tendency towards a more aggressive colour.  There was also the jewelled ring, now conspicuously held aloft on a fat little finger.  The stripes appeared that morning as the banner of a hated suzerain,