" This sally occasioned a general laugh. We had better have it over. I would not think so of you, Marthe. The last piece was Scheherazade. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. It was hard to meet that gaze. Oh, I know. ‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’ ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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