She told herself quite
seriously that he was one of those men who are far happier unwedded. His
standard, not so much of feminine virtue as of feminine behaviour, was
too high. Take what had happened just now; she had listened indulgently,
tenderly, to the quarrel of the newly married couple, but she had seen
the effect it had produced on John Coxeter. To him it had been a
tragedy, and an ugly, ignoble tragedy to boot. *       *       *       *       *

The deck was now clear of passengers. Out in the open sea the fog had
become so thick as to be impenetrable, and the boat seemed to be groping
its way, heralded by the mournful screaming of the siren. Mrs. Archdale
felt drowsy; she leant back and closed her eyes. Coxeter was close by,
puffing steadily at his pipe. She felt a pleasant sensation of security. She was roused, rather startled, by a man bending over her, while a
voice said gruffly, "I think, ma'am, that you'd better get into shelter. The deck saloon is close by. Allow me to lead you to it." Nan rose obediently. With the petty officer on one side and Coxeter on
the other, she made a slow progress across the deck, and so to the
large, brilliantly lighted saloon. There the fog had been successfully
shut out, and some fifteen to twenty people sat on the velvet benches;
among them was the sweetmeat merchant to whom Nan had talked in the
train. Coxeter found a comfortable place for Nan rather apart from the others,
and sitting down he began to talk to her. The fog-horn, which was
trumpeting more loudly, more insistently than ever, did not, he thought,
interfere with their conversation as much as it might have done. "We shan't be there till morning," Coxeter heard a man say, "till
morning doth appear, at this rate!" "I suppose we're all right. There's no _real_ danger in a fog--not in
the Channel; there never has been an accident on the Channel
passage--not an accident of any serious kind." "Yes, there was--to one of the Dieppe boats--a very bad accident!" And then several of those present joined in the discussion. The man who
had recalled the Dieppe boat accident could be heard, self-assertive,
pragmatical, his voice raised above the voices around him. "I've been
all over the world in my time, and when I'm caught in a fog at sea I
always get up, dress, and go up on deck, however sleepy I may be." Coxeter, sitting apart by Nan's side, listened with some amusement. His
rather thin sense of humour was roused by the fact that the people
around him were talking in so absurd a manner. This delay was not
pleasant; it might even mean that he would be a few hours late at the
Treasury, a thing he had never once been after a holiday, for Coxeter
prided himself on his punctuality in the little as well as the great
things of life. But, of course, all traffic in the Channel would be
delayed by this fog, and his absence would be accounted for by the fact. Sitting there, close to Mrs. Archdale, with no one sufficiently near to
attract her attention, or, what was more likely, to appeal to her for
sympathy, he felt he could well afford to wait till the fog cleared off. As for the loud, insistent screaming of the siren, that sound which
apparently got on the nerves of most of those present in the deck
saloon, of course it was a disagreeable noise, but then they all knew it
was a necessary precaution, so why make a fuss about it? Coxeter turned and looked at his companion, and as he looked at her he
felt a little possessive thrill of pride. Mrs. Archdale alone among the
people there seemed content and at ease, indeed she was now smiling,
smiling very brightly and sweetly, and, following the direction of her
eyes, he saw that they rested on a child lying asleep in its mother's
arms....

Perhaps after all it was a good thing that Nan was so detached from
material things. Before that burst of foolish talk provoked by the fog,
he had been speaking to her about a matter very interesting to
himself--something connected with his work, something, by the way, of
which he would not have thought of speaking to any other woman; but then
Mrs. Archdale, as Coxeter had good reason to know, was exceptionally
discreet.... She had evidently been very much interested in all he had
told her, and he had enjoyed the conversation. Coxeter became dimly conscious of what it would mean to him to have Nan
to come back to when work, and the couple of hours he usually spent at
his club, were over. Perhaps if Nan were waiting for him, he would not
wish to stay as long as two hours at his club. But then of course he
would want Nan all to himself. Jealous? Certainly not. He was far too
sensible a man to feel jealous, but he would expect his wife to put him
first--a very long way in front of anybody else. It might be
old-fashioned, but he was that sort of man. *       *       *       *       *

Coxeter's thoughts leapt back into the present with disagreeable
abruptness. Their Jewish fellow-traveller, the man who had thrust on
Mrs. Archdale such unseemly confidences, had got up. He was now heading
straight for the place where Mrs. Archdale was sitting. Coxeter quickly decided that the fellow must not be allowed to bore Mrs.
Archdale. She was in his, Coxeter's, care to-night, and he alone had a
right to her interest and attention. So he got up and walked down the
saloon. To his surprise the other, on seeing him come near, stopped
dead. "I want to speak to you," he said in a low voice,
"Mr.--er--Coxeter." Coxeter looked at him, surprised, then reminded himself that his full
name, "John Coxeter," was painted on his portmanteau. Also that Mrs.
Archdale had called him "Mr. Coxeter" at least once, when discussing
that life-saving toy. Still, sharp, observant fellows, Jews! One should
always be on one's guard with them. "Yes?" he said interrogatively. "Well, Mr. Coxeter, I want to ask you to do me a little favour. The
truth is I've just made my will--only a few lines--and I want you to be
my second witness. I've no objection, none in the world, to your seeing
what I want you to witness." He spoke very deliberately, as if he had prepared the form of words in
which he made his strange request, and as he spoke he held out a sheet
of paper apparently torn out of a notebook. "I asked that gentleman over
there"--he jerked his thumb over his shoulder--"to be my first witness,
and he kindly consented. I'd be much obliged if you'd sign your name
just here. I'll also ask you to take charge of it--only a small
envelope, as you see. It's addressed to my mother. I've made her
executor and residuary legatee." Coxeter felt a strong impulse to refuse. He never mixed himself up with
other people's affairs; he always refused to do so on principle. The man standing opposite to him divined what was passing through his
mind, and broke in, "Only just while we're on this boat.