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He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. "Drink this, then," roared Blueskin. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. I require nothing, you see, till my share of the contract is fulfilled. It was empty. Take a room!” “I say!” said Constance. “Will you help me?” he asked.
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