But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. You were wide the mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. There's nothing so sad in this world as an old fool," she added.
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