She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. Disperse in every direction. Cathy chimed. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door.
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