"Why, man, she was making eyes at every man in the ship! I caught her kissing a soldier once." Maurice Frere's cheeks grew hot.

The experienced profligate had been taken in, deceived, perhaps laughed at.

All the time he had flattered himself that he was fascinating the black-eyed maid, the black-eyed maid had been twisting him round her finger, and perhaps imitating his love-making for the gratification of her soldier-lover.

It was not a pleasant thought; and yet, strange to say, the idea of Sarah's treachery did not make him dislike her.

There is a sort of love--if love it can be called--which thrives under ill-treatment.