Mr. Gilman had taken the wheel after about the sixth dance.  Approaching Audrey, who owed him the next dance, he had said that the skipper had hinted something about his taking the wheel and he thought he had better oblige the old fellow, if Audrey was quite, quite sure she didn’t mind, and would she come and sit by him instead—­for one dance? ...  As soon as two sailors had fixed cushions for Audrey, and the skipper had given the owner the course, all persons seemed to withdraw respectfully from the pair, who were in the shadow of a great spar, with the glimmer of the binnacle just in front of them.  The square sail had been lowered, and the engines started, and a steady, faint throb kept the yacht mysteriously alive in every plank of her.  The gramophone and the shuffle of feet continued, because Mr. Gilman had expressly desired that his momentary defection with a lady and in obedience to duty should not bring the ball to an end.  Laughter and even giggles came from the ballroom.  Males were dancing together.  The power of the moon had increased.  The binnacle-light, however, threw up a radiance of its own on to Mr. Gilman’s lowered face, the face of a kind, a good, and a dependably expert individuality who was watching over the safety, the welfare and the highest interests of every soul on board.

“I was very sorry to be laid up to-day,” Mr. Gilman began suddenly, in a very quiet voice, frowning benevolently at the black pointer on the compass.  “But, of course, you know my great enemy.”

“No, I don’t,” said Audrey gently.

“Hasn’t Doc told you?”

“Doctor Cromarty?  No, he doesn’t tell much.”

“Well,” said Mr. Gilman, looking round quickly and shyly, rather in the manner of a boy, “it’s liver.”

Audrey seemed to read in his face, first, that Doctor Cromarty had received secret orders never to tell anybody anything, and, second, that the great enemy was not liver.  And she thought:  “So this is human nature!  Mature men, wise men, dignified men, do descend to these paltry deceits just in order to keep up appearances, though they must know quite well that they don’t deceive anyone who is worth deceiving.”  The remarkable fact was that she did not feel in the least shocked or disdainful.  She merely decided—­and found a certain queer pleasure in the decision—­that human nature was a curious phenomenon, and that there must be a lot of it on earth.  And she felt kindly towards Mr. Gilman.

“If you’d said gout——­” she remarked.  “I always understood that men generally had gout.”  And she consciously, with intention, employed a simple, innocent tone, knowing that it misled Mr. Gilman, and wanting it to mislead him.

“No!” he went on.  “Liver.  All sailors suffer from it, more or less.  It’s the bugbear of the sea.  I have a doctor on board because, with a score or so of crew, it’s really a duty to have a doctor.”

“I quite see that,” Audrey agreed, thinking mildly:  “You only have a doctor on board because you’re always worrying about your own health.”