of most of its organic forces. The malice of nine hundred years ago may have been carved into that Image, but it can’t come out again.”
Gregory drew a little sigh of relief.
“Of course you’re right,” he acquiesced, “and yet——”
“Cut out the ‘and yets’,” the doctor interrupted. “Get up on deck now and dance. That’s what’s good for you. Be normal and don’t harbour any thought that hasn’t a definite and reasonable origin. See you later. I may come up and have a turn myself.”
Gregory hurried on deck to be greeted a little reproachfully by Claire.
“How dare you keep me waiting,” she complained. “The orchestra have never played better and I’ve been nearly crazy sitting here by myself. Don’t let’s waste a minute now you have come.”
They were out of the region of storms. The awning had been rolled away and they danced on the outside deck with the orchestra half concealed in a little lounge. The minutes passed by in a sort of enchantment. From fox trots they passed to waltzes, both utterly unconscious that sometimes they were the only two dancing. Suddenly Claire drew back and looked at her companion.
“Why, I believe you’re tired!” she exclaimed. “Do let’s stop.”
“No, we’ll go on,” he answered quickly.
The music seemed to have gained a new and more passionate throb. The starlit night seemed to be leaning down, to close them in. There was a breath of magic in the languid air, in the perfume from her hair and clothes, swimming out into the stillness. Her eyes for a moment had half closed in faint response to the joy of it all. His arm suddenly tightened around her—tightened!
“Stop!” she ordered quickly.
He obeyed at once. She looked at him with an expression of amazement, in which was almost a gleam of terror. Then she turned away.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I want to speak to Mrs. Hichens. Please don’t come.”
He knew better than to follow her, to protest, to attempt any explanation. He made his way to the smoking room and drank two whiskies and sodas. The steward looked at him curiously.
“Hot work dancing to-night, sir,” he observed.
“Hot as hell,” Gregory answered. “Give me another drink.”
He was served immediately. Afterwards he stepped back on to the deck. Claire had disappeared. He went up to a woman whom he had previously avoided with sedulous care—a grass widow, good-looking still in a way, but overanxious, overobvious, overperfumed. She rose to her feet with astonishing alacrity at his unexpected invitation. A moment later they danced off into the darkness.
The smoking-room steward took Gregory to his stateroom that night, and the faithful Perkins, summoned from his own repose, undressed him. He went to sleep with a chuckle upon his distorted lips.
“I’m with you, old fellow,” he muttered, waving his hand feebly to his unseen companion. “You’re the chap for us Ballastons. Glad I got you—and not the other.”
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