“Ready!” called Guthrie.  And then he said something to the men, Bill Hardacre and his mate Dugald Finlayson, about having everything on board—­all his life and happiness, or something to that effect—­at which they laughed and chaffed him as the launch backed from the pier, and started off in the tearing hurry characteristic of Customs boats.

Lily was in the cabin with the baby and the landlady’s cousin, who had ‘got round’ Mr Hardacre to give her a return passage, after seeing the little family safe home.  Husband and wife had frowned at the suggestion of having her with them on the launch, but when they had shut her in out of sight and hearing, and found themselves free to follow their own devices untrammelled by their child, they did not mind so much.

“Hadn’t you better—?” Guthrie began, when his wife reappeared, clinging to the door-jamb; but she exclaimed again: 

“No, no!  Let me be outside with you!” She wanted to feel “at sea” with him, to bathe herself, under the shelter of his protection, in the magnificent, tempestuous, inspiring night.  To her, cooped up all her life in streets and prosaic circumstances, there was something in the present situation too poetical for words.  No bride who had married money, and was setting out by P. & O. upon her luxurious European tour, could have been more keenly sensible of the romance of foreign travel than she, crossing Hobson’s Bay in a borrowed Customs launch; while the squally darkness surrounding and isolating her and her mate immeasurably enhanced the charm.  “I want to see it—­to feel it!” she pleaded.  “The air is so clean and fresh!  The sea is so grand tonight!  How beautiful it smells!  Guthrie, I must have been born for a sailor’s wife—­I love it so!”

“Of course you were,” the sailor assented heartily.  “No manner of doubt about that.  Well, sit here, if you prefer it, sweetheart”—­on the stern grating—­“only mind you don’t catch cold.  And don’t let us get that pretty frock spoiled before the Williamstown folks have seen it.”

He steadied her while she stood to have the big macintosh drawn closely about her—­the round cape, flapping far and wide in the rough wind, was like an unmanageable sail, he said—­and when she was again seated, he tucked it about her knees and feet.  Buttons being hard to find and fasten, he pulled the two fronts of the garment one over the other across her lap, and she sat upon the outer one.  Then he readjusted the white fascinator, winding the fluffy ends round her neck, and finally encircling all with his stalwart arm.  There she sat, resting against him, her left hand in his left hand, her contented eyes shining like stars in the dark.  They were practically alone in space, their deck companions having thoughtfully turned their backs and made themselves as remote as possible.

A long sigh fluttered through Lily’s parted lips from her surcharged heart.  Guthrie heard it through all the clamour of the gale—­for it really was a gale—­and the noise of the screw and fiercely snorting funnel.  He stopped his face to hers.