"You'd better take my arm, sir; you're as weak as a baby, and the ship lurches a good deal to-day."
"I'm not very strong, certainly. I begin to think I never shall be strong again. Do you know, Martin, I was once stroke in a university eight. Not much vigour in my biceps now, eh?"
It was only a few paces from one cabin to the other; but Mr. Saltram could scarcely have gone so far without the steward's supporting arm. He was a feeble-looking figure, with a white wan face, as he tottered along the narrow passage between the tables, making his way to that end of the saloon where Percival Nowell lounged luxuriously, with his legs stretched at full length upon the sofa, and a book in his hand.
"Mr. Nowell, I believe," said the sick man, as the other looked up at him with consummate coolness. Whatever his feelings might be with regard to his daughter's husband, he had had ample time to prepare himself for an encounter with him.
"Yes, my name is Nowell. But I have really not the honour to——"
"You do not know me," answered John Saltram. "No, but it is time you did so. I am your daughter's husband, John Holbrook."
"Indeed. I have heard that she has been persecuted by the messages of some person calling himself her husband. You are that person, I presume."
"I have tried to persuade my wife to see me. Yes; and I mean to see her before this vessel arrives in port."
"But if the lady in question refuses to have anything to say to you?"