“There is liking at first sight,” affirmed d’Alcacer, “as well as love at first sight—­the coup de foudre—­you know.”

She looked up for a moment, and he went on, gravely:  “I think it is the truest, the most profound of sentiments.  You do not love because of what is in the other.  You love because of something that is in you—­something alive—­in yourself.”  He struck his breast lightly with the tip of one finger.  “A capacity in you.  And not everyone may have it—­not everyone deserves to be touched by fire from heaven.”

“And die,” she said.

He made a slight movement.

“Who can tell?  That is as it may be.  But it is always a privilege, even if one must live a little after being burnt.”

Through the silence between them, Mr. Travers’ voice came plainly, saying with irritation: 

“I’ve told you already that I do not want you.  I’ve sent a messenger to the governor of the Straits.  Don’t be importunate.”

Then Lingard, standing with his back to them, growled out something which must have exasperated Mr. Travers, because his voice was pitched higher: 

“You are playing a dangerous game, I warn you.  Sir John, as it happens, is a personal friend of mine.  He will send a cruiser—­” and Lingard interrupted recklessly loud: 

“As long as she does not get here for the next ten days, I don’t care.  Cruisers are scarce just now in the Straits; and to turn my back on you is no hanging matter anyhow.  I would risk that, and more!  Do you hear?  And more!”

He stamped his foot heavily, Mr. Travers stepped back.

“You will gain nothing by trying to frighten me,” he said.  “I don’t know who you are.”

Every eye in the yacht was wide open.  The men, crowded upon each other, stared stupidly like a flock of sheep.  Mr. Travers pulled out a handkerchief and passed it over his forehead.  The face of the sailing-master who leaned against the main mast—­as near as he dared to approach the gentry—­was shining and crimson between white whiskers, like a glowing coal between two patches of snow.

D’Alcacer whispered: 

“It is a quarrel, and the picturesque man is angry.  He is hurt.”

Mrs. Travers’ fan rested on her knees, and she sat still as if waiting to hear more.

“Do you think I ought to make an effort for peace?” asked d’Alcacer.

She did not answer, and after waiting a little, he insisted: 

“What is your opinion?  Shall I try to mediate—­as a neutral, as a benevolent neutral?  I like that man with the beard.”

The interchange of angry phrases went on aloud, amidst general consternation.

“I would turn my back on you only I am thinking of these poor devils here,” growled Lingard, furiously.  “Did you ask them how they feel about it?”

“I ask no one,” spluttered Mr. Travers.  “Everybody here depends on my judgment.”

“I am sorry for them then,” pronounced Lingard with sudden deliberation, and leaning forward with his arms crossed on his breast.