of the smallest particle of any saving grace that would come in his way.  I didn’t know how much of it he believed himself.  I didn’t know what he was playing up to—­if he was playing up to anything at all—­and I suspect he did not know either; for it is my belief no man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge.  I made no sound all the time he was wondering what he had better do after “that stupid inquiry was over.”

’Apparently he shared Brierly’s contemptuous opinion of these proceedings ordained by law.  He would not know where to turn, he confessed, clearly thinking aloud rather than talking to me.  Certificate gone, career broken, no money to get away, no work that he could obtain as far as he could see.  At home he could perhaps get something; but it meant going to his people for help, and that he would not do.  He saw nothing for it but ship before the mast—­could get perhaps a quartermaster’s billet in some steamer.  Would do for a quartermaster. . . .  “Do you think you would?” I asked pitilessly.  He jumped up, and going to the stone balustrade looked out into the night.  In a moment he was back, towering above my chair with his youthful face clouded yet by the pain of a conquered emotion.  He had understood very well I did not doubt his ability to steer a ship.  In a voice that quavered a bit he asked me why did I say that?  I had been “no end kind” to him.  I had not even laughed at him when—­here he began to mumble—­“that mistake, you know—­made a confounded ass of myself.”  I broke in by saying rather warmly that for me such a mistake was not a matter to laugh at.  He sat down and drank deliberately some coffee, emptying the small cup to the last drop.  “That does not mean I admit for a moment the cap fitted,” he declared distinctly.  “No?” I said.  “No,” he affirmed with quiet decision.  “Do you know what you would have done?  Do you?  And you don’t think yourself” . . . he gulped something . . . “you don’t think yourself a—­a—­cur?”

’And with this—­upon my honour!—­he looked up at me inquisitively.  It was a question it appears—­a bona fide question!  However, he didn’t wait for an answer.  Before I could recover he went on, with his eyes straight before him, as if reading off something written on the body of the night.  “It is all in being ready.  I wasn’t; not—­not then.  I don’t want to excuse myself; but I would like to explain—­I would like somebody to understand—­somebody—­one person at least!  You!  Why not you?”

’It was solemn, and a little ridiculous too, as they always are, those struggles of an individual trying to save from the fire his idea of what his moral identity should be, this precious notion of a convention, only one of the rules of the game, nothing more, but all the same so terribly effective by its assumption of unlimited power over natural instincts, by the awful penalties of its failure.  He began his story quietly enough.  On board that Dale