“’Tain’t for its looks, anyway,” the man muttered.
Gregory went through his usual morning routine—his bath, the swim, the gymnasium and the coiffeur. Afterwards he made a leisurely toilet in his stateroom, slipped out on to the deck at a moment when it was almost deserted, and walked across to the smoking room with swift footsteps, lithe and graceful, notwithstanding the debauch of the night before, carefully dressed as usual, his eyes as bright as ever, no sign of evil living in his clear complexion. Yet, for all his presentability, no one knew better than he that he had gradually become the most unpopular person upon the ship. The captain had taken to looking the other way when he passed. The doctor’s nod was of the curtest. Mrs. Hichens never pretended not to cut him. Claire alone, on the few occasions when they passed or met face to face, bowed gravely, sometimes even exchanged a word of greeting. She still spent the time on deck as usual, but always with Mrs. Hichens by her side. One or two of the women with whom he had exchanged a few civilities still looked wistfully for him when the dancing began—his grass widow had indeed boldly attempted to waylay him one evening on his return from the dining saloon. Gregory, however, lied with cynical impudence, declared that he had sprained his ankle and would not dance again for the rest of the voyage, and then promptly walked alone for an hour through the summer darkness on the upper deck. On another occasion an enterprising young woman, whose courage was greater than her discretion, sought him out in the smoking room and tried to gain his confidence. She rejoined her friends after a very brief absence, a little ruffled. Gregory’s politeness was icy, but on one point he seemed to have made up his mind: He was ready to gamble with any one, to drink with any one, but so far as the women were concerned—the women of his own quarter of the ship—he avoided them with a finality which admitted of no advances. He played cards all through the long summer days and moonlit, Mediterranean nights, for stakes much higher than the ship’s officers approved of, but he never approached the dancing spaces or entered the music room where the ladies congregated. Rumour went about that he had been sent to Coventry, and, as was natural, on an Eastern liner, there were no end of scandalous stories. One of them, and a name, he happened to overhear, and he gave the smoking room something to gossip about for the rest of the day. He rose from his seat and approached the little group.
“May I ask your name, sir?” he enquired of the man who had told the story; a large man, well under medium age, but puffy and loud-voiced.
“Why, you surely may,” was the prompt reply. “Richard Thomson. We’ve played cards together more than once.”
“Well, Mr. Thomson,” Gregory said, “I have to tell you that I dislike the mention of ladies’ names in a smoking room. I dislike it so much, especially when allied with scandalous fiction, that I am going to throw you out on to the deck.”
The man tried bluster, but he fared the worse for it. He picked himself up, sprawling, from somewhere near the rails, and spent his morning trying to interview various officers of the ship. The purser at last was commissioned to approach Gregory.
“I have a complaint, Mr. Ballaston,” he announced, a little stiffly, “from Mr. Thomson. He asserts that you used violence to him in the smoking room.”
“Quite correct,” was the deliberate reply. “I don’t like him. I shall probably throw him out again if he comes in.”
“An affair of this sort is not to be treated so lightly, sir,” the purser declared. “I must request some sort of an explanation or else that you apologise to Mr. Thomson.”
Gregory considered for a moment.