She proffered her hand impulsively, her eyes dancing.

"My, that's the first pretty thing you've said to me!" she declared
flippantly. "I just like you, Mr. West!"

West was feeling for his cigarette case. He gave her his hand without
looking at her, as if her approbation did not greatly gratify him. When
she was gone he moved away along the wind-swept deck with his collar up
to his ears and his head bent to the gale. His conversation with the
American girl had not apparently made him feel any more sociably
inclined towards his fellow-passengers.

* * * * *

Certainly, as Cynthia had declared, young Archibald Bathurst was an
exceedingly reckless player. He lacked the judgment and the cool brain
essential to a good cardplayer, with the result that he lost much more
often than he won. But notwithstanding this fact he had a passion for
cards which no amount of defeat could abate--a passion which he never
failed to indulge whenever an opportunity presented itself.

At the very moment when his cousin was making her petition on his behalf
to the surly Englishman on deck, he was seated in the saloon with three
or four men older than himself, playing and losing, playing and losing,
with almost unvarying monotony, yet with a feverish relish that had in
it something tragic.

He was only three-and-twenty, and, as he was wont to remark, ill-luck
dogged him persistently at every turn. He never blamed himself when rash
speculations failed, and he never profited by bitter experience. Simply,