The Captain almost cursed aloud. How was he to make that old woman, living on all the formulæ of dead generations, and fancying that she knew the world, understand the difference between a wild young man and a vicious one? The girl might easily be persuaded to hate a man so aggressively masculine as France, but had she, a baby of eighteen, the strength of character to stand out against the ruthless will of her mother? Moreover, it was apparent that the vocabulary of the West Indies had yet to be enriched with those pregnant collocations, “new girl,” “new woman”; all these pretty old-fashioned young creatures had been brought up, no doubt, in a healthy submission to their parents, and if one of the parents happened to be a she-dragon, possibly her daughter would marry a ducal valetudinarian of ninety if she got her marching orders.
Should he appeal to France? The Captain, possessed though he was of the national heart of oak, felt no stomach for that interview. Imagination presented him with a vision, cruelly distinct, of the expression of high-bred insolence with which his effort would be received, the subtle manner in which he would be made to feel, that, superior officer though he might be, and in a fair way to become admiral and knight, he dwelt on the far side of that chasm which segregates the aristocrat from the plebeian. France had treated him to these sensations once or twice when he had remonstrated with him for giving way to his villainous temper, or mixed himself up in some nasty mess on shore; had even dared to threaten the prospective duke, who never noticed him when they met in Piccadilly. France had, indeed, induced such deep and righteous wrath in the worthy Captain’s breast that he might have been responsible for another convert to Socialism had it not been for the old sailor’s immutable loyalty to his queen and flag. But he hated France the more because the man was too clever for him. If he had disgraced his uniform, it always chanced that the Captain was engaged elsewhere; it was the Captain, not himself, who lost his temper during their personal encounters; his politeness, indeed, to his superior officer was unbearable. And his family influence surrounded him like wired glass; it would have saved a more reckless man from public disgrace. His mother’s brother abominated him, but used his close connection with the Admiralty to avert a family scandal; his cousin, Kingsborough, who was far too saturated with family pride, and too unsophisticated, to believe such stories as he may have heard about the heir to whom he was automatically attached, believed France’s tales of envious detractors, and protected him vigilantly. Sickly as he was, he was by no means negligible politically; he did his duty as he saw it, and, a sound Tory, was a reliable pillar of his party, whether it was in opposition or in power. Lastly, France was a good officer, and, apparently, without fear.
To-night, the Captain, thinking of his one unmarried daughter, and singularly attracted by the radiant girl about to be sacrificed by a narrow, inexperienced, long since sexless mother, hated France ferociously and made up his never wavering mind to balk him. . . .
“And speaking of the devil’s own—”
France had stepped out upon the terrace not far from him, and alone. For a moment the man stood in shadow, then a quick, abrupt movement brought his face into a shaft of light. France, unaware of the only other occupant of the terrace, stared straight before him. The Captain looked to see his face flushed and contorted with animal desire, knowing the man as he did. But France’s face was as immobile as a mask; only, as he continued to stare, there came into his eyes what the Captain had formulated as “a heartless glitter.” It made him look neither man nor beast, but a shell without a soul, without the common instincts of humanity, a Thing apart. As the Captain, himself in shadow, gazed, fascinated, and sensible of the horror which this singular expression of France’s always induced, something stirred in his brain. Where had he seen that expression before—sometime in his remote youth?—where? where?—Suddenly he had a vision of a whole troop of faces—they marched out from some lost recess in his mind—all with that same heartless—soulless—glitter in their eyes. And then the cigar fell from his loosened lips. He had seen those faces—some thirty years ago—in an asylum for the insane one night when the more docile of the patients were permitted to have a dance.
“Good God!” he muttered. “Good God!”
France turned at the sound of the voice.
“That you, Captain?” he said negligently, his eyes merely hard and shallow again. “Jolly party, ain’t it? Of course the tropics are an old story to you, but this is my first experience of the West Indies, at least. I’m quite mad about them. And all these toppin’ girls! Never saw such skins. Come in and have a drink?”
He had spoken in his best manner, without a trace of insolence. Having delivered himself of inoffensive sentiments, quite proper to the evening, he suddenly passed his arm through that of his superior officer and led him down the terrace. The Captain, overcome by his emotions and the unwonted condescension of a prospective duke, made no resistance, drank a stiff Scotch-and-soda, then cursing himself for a snob of the best British dye, returned to the element where he felt most at home.