The news of Gatewood's fate filled Kerns with a pleasure bordering upon melancholy.

It was his work; he had done it; it was good for Gatewood too--time for him to stop his irresponsible cruise through life, lower sail, heave to, set his signals, and turn over matters to this charming pilot.
And now they would come into port together and anchor somewhere east of Fifth Avenue--which, Kerns reflected, was far more proper a place for Gatewood than somewhere east of Suez, where young men so often sail.
And yet, and yet there was something melancholy in the pleasure he experienced.

Gatewood was practically lost to him.

He knew what might be expected from engaged men and newly married men.

Gatewood's club life was ended--for a while; and there was no other man with whom he cared to embark for those brightly lighted harbors twinkling east of Suez across the metropolitan wastes.
"It's very generous of me to get him married," he said frequently to himself, rather sadly.