"What can I do?" it said. "I have never had a chance till now. I have
just had a berth in India offered to me; but I can't possibly hope to
support a wife for two years at least. And meanwhile--meanwhile----"
It stopped there; and a long wave broke with a roar, and rushed up in
gleaming foam almost to their feet. The younger man stepped back; but
Cheveril remained motionless, his face to the swirling water.
Quite suddenly at length he turned, as a man whose mind is made up, and
began to walk back to the dimly lighted parade. He marched straight up
the shingle, as if with a definite purpose in view, and mounted the
rickety iron ladder to the pavement.
His companion followed, too absorbed by his trouble to feel any
curiosity regarding the stranger to whom he had poured it out.
Under a flaring gas-lamp, Cheveril stood still.
"Do you mind telling me your name?" he said abruptly.
That roused the boy slightly. "My name is Willowby," he answered--"James
Willowby."
He looked at Cheveril with a dawning wonder, and the latter uttered a
short, grim laugh. The light streamed full upon his face.
"You know me well, don't you," he said, "by sight?"
Young Willowby gave a great start and turned crimson. He offered neither
apology nor excuse.
"I like you for that," Cheveril said, after a moment. "Can you bring
yourself to shake hands?"
There was unmistakable friendliness in his tone, and Willowby responded
to it promptly.
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