“Poor Catherine!” I said—­“Then indeed it is no use telling you anything!  You are in darkness instead of daylight, and no one can make you see.  Oh, what can I do to help you?”

“Nothing,”—­she answered—­“My faith—­it was never very much,—­was taken from me altogether when I was quite young.  Father made it seem absurd.  He’s a clever man, you know—­and in a few words he makes out religion to be utter nonsense.”

“I understand!”

And indeed I did entirely understand.  Her father was one of a rapidly increasing class of men who are a danger to the community,—­ a cold, cynical shatterer of every noble ideal,—­a sneerer at patriotism and honour,—­a deliberate iconoclast of the most callous and remorseless type.  That he had good points in his character was not to be denied,—­a murderer may have these.  But to be in his company for very long was to feel that there is no good in anything--that life is a mistake of Nature, and death a fortunate ending of the blunder—­that God is a delusion and the ‘Soul’ a mere expression signifying certain intelligent movements of the brain only.

I stood silently thinking these things, while she watched me rather wistfully.  Presently she said: 

“Are you going on deck now?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll join you all at luncheon.  Don’t lose that bit of heather in your dress,—­it’s really quite brilliant—­like a jewel.”

I hesitated a moment.

“You’re not vexed with me for speaking as I have done?” I asked her.

“Vexed?  No, indeed!  I love to hear you and see you defending your own fairy ground!  For it is like a fairy tale, you know—­all that you believe!”

“It has practical results, anyway!”—­I answered—­“You must admit that.”

“Yes—­I know,—­and it’s just what I can’t understand.  We’ll have another talk about it some day.  Would you tell Dr. Brayle that I shall be ready for him in ten minutes?”

I assented, and left her.  I made for the deck directly, the air meeting me with a rush of salty softness as I ran up the saloon stairway.  What a glorious day it was!  Sky, sea and mountains were bathed in brilliant sunshine; the ‘Diana’ was cutting her path swiftly through waters which marked her course on either side by a streak of white foam.  I mentally contrasted the loveliness of the scene around me with the stuffy cabin I had just left, and seeing Dr. Brayle smoking comfortably in a long reclining chair and reading a paper I went up to him and touched him on the shoulder.

“Your patient wants you in ten minutes,”—­I said.

He rose to his feet at once, courteously offering me a chair, which I declined, and drew his cigar from his mouth.

“I have two patients on board,”—­he answered, smiling—­“Which one?”

“The one who is your patient from choice, not necessity,”—­I replied, coolly.

“My dear lady!” His eyes blinked at me with a furtive astonishment—­ “If you were not so charming I should say you were—­well!—­Shall I say it?—­a trifle opinionated!”