AEQUAM memento,” I reflected, “rebus in arduis.”

After all, marriage would disturb my pursuits. A man with a liquid and non-resistant name like “Ulswater,” with a fleshy and floating physique, with a mind as full of refuse as a sargasso sea, and whiskers resembling sargasso,—when he proposes to ally himself in marriage to a woman like Mrs. Mink, whose rational instincts—as a capable and neat housekeeper—would be to trim his whiskers and rearrange his nature, to tidy up his mind and sweep it, hang antimacassars over its chairs, polish its andirons, fling the cuspidor out of the window, and can the tropical fruitage of his character into jellies and jams in glass jars with screw tops and rubber bands,—when such a man has in mind such an alliance, if fate prevents, if an agile Presbyterian professor is one too many for him, what should he do but remark, “Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem,” that is, “In trouble take it easy,” and then immediately proceed to swear himself black in the face, and wish for a green and red parrot to take up the job after him?

Precisely. Also I dried my clothes and whistled. Time passed on, and it was perhaps six o'clock. Suddenly, as I looked up, Professor Simpson stood before me, alone.

“Professor,” I said, “you intrude.”

He seated himself on the fallen trunk of the banana tree.

“I am compelled to do so,” he said. “Mrs. Mink objects to the present arrangement; whether on the score of propriety, or because she regards my protection as inadequate, I cannot say, I refuse to discuss. It is a matter, in either case, humiliating to myself. She demands the return of Dr. Uls-water.”

“I am sorry for Mrs. Mink's feelings,” I said, “but I seem to see a lack of consideration for mine.”

“I have stated Mrs. Mink's attitude without commenting upon it,” he went on. “As regards my own, there is much more to be said. I cannot conceal from myself that the terms you have applied to my late ill-regulated conduct would, if properly qualified and defined, in the main be just. I am, further, upon Mrs. Mink's own declaration, forced to believe that her consent not for the present to decline my suit, but to consider it, perhaps favourably, was entirely due to that very action which my conscience compels me to deplore. She was attracted by that very deviation from rectitude into which I was tempted and fell. She states that she was about to decline my proposal absolutely, finally, when my action revealed to her my character, as she says, in a new light. Not to my position in the scientific world, my well-earned repute, not to my worthier qualities of mind and heart, not to her conviction of these claims, can her capitulation—if such it was—be attributed. You will understand my distress at this admission made by Mrs. Mink. I fear to infer, and yet I must infer, a want of seriousness, of strict conscience, on the part of Mrs. Mink. I showed her my distress, I intimated my fear, I begged her to allay it, to consider, to recollect the facts more carefully. She became angry and asked if I repented cutting the rope. I defined my position. She interrupted, refused to listen, and said that my proposal was now declined. I endeavoured to reason, to supplement argument by argument. She prevented me; she commanded me to go and insist on Dr. Ulswater's return. Such has been my recent painful conversation with Mrs. Mink, concluding with the command which has caused this intrusion upon you.”

“Don't apologise,” I said, gaily, getting up. “You repent and withdraw, I forgive and forget.”

“I have admitted repentance but not withdrawal,” he said, angrily, “and I refuse your impertinent forgiveness.”

“Come along, professor,” I said. “Refuse and admit what you like till the crack of doom. I've got business on hand.”

He followed after dejectedly.

As we drew near, we saw Mrs. Mink, with Norah, standing on the high bank and looking seaward. She saw us, cried out, pointed, and waved her handkerchief. A small steam vessel was entering the bay. It was Captain Jansen and the crew looking for us and for the vagrant Violetta.