The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. When Sheila was in a good mood, one almost enjoyed her. " "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. I know. If I told you the facts, I expect, since you are in love with me, you’d explain the whole business as being very fine and honorable for me—the Higher Morality, or something of that sort. And she defies me.
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