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bad going. ”
    It seemed to Lisa that there was a slice of atmosphere between herself and the Captain which crackled electrically. Why an antagonism should have sprung up between Lisa Maxwell and the master of the Wentworth was incomprehensible, but it was there, a recurring and unmistakable state of tension.
    Mark had continued speaking, though he now addressed Jeremy. “You will put in a few hours with Miss Carmichael, won’t you? She has a trying time ahead of her because in a country like South Africa there will be few first-class actors to choose from. As a matter of fact,” he looked at Astra as if it had only at that moment occurred to him, “you may find Mr. Carne just the pupil you’re after. The fans fall hard for a fair, handsome hero.”
    The assured blue gaze swerved and flickered over Lisa. He was lining her up with the “fans” and at the same time deriving inward amusement from the reflection that Jeremy could easily be wrested from her side. He wasn’t only aloof and arrogant; he was almost vindictive.
    “What a wonderful idea,” said Astra. “I’ll have to think that over.”
    Jeremy, apparently, was not to be consulted at this stage. Lisa looked his way and saw that his color had not yet receded. He was practically taken in by all this talk; bemused, perhaps, by Astra’s fame, her expensive perfume and the tantalizing snugness of her frock; her mature curves were very beautiful. Vaguely miserable, Lisa leaned forward to stub out the cigarette she had scarcely smoked.
    Mark stood up. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and moved with a long, careless stride towards the main entrance, and disappeared.
    Lisa did not attend very assiduously to the conversation which ensued between Jeremy and Astra Carmichael. It was chiefly about the actress’s other successes in the theatre and the delights she achieved from producing. She was no more conceited than she had a right to be, and it was natural that Jeremy should be enthralled.
    He tried to fire Lisa with his own enthusiasm for the sophisticated creature who still lay back in her chair with an indefinable air of helplessness; but it was no good. Lisa craved for the privacy of her bed.
    She got to her feet. “You won’t mind if I leave you now?”
    On the point of saying “I’ll go with you,” Jeremy paused. He couldn’t very well walk out on Miss Carmichael. “Won’t you wait a little longer, Lee?” he begged.
    “I’m rather tired. See you at breakfast, Jeremy. Goodnight, Miss Carmichael.”
    Astra murmured something, but it was not permission for Jeremy to accompany Lisa, so after a minute or so he sat down again.
    Lisa did not go at once to the cabin. She stepped through one of the doorways on to the deck and crossed to the rail to peer down at the dark, subdued seas. There were no stars and a wind still scoured the bulwarks, but something in the air promised warmth. With every second they were sailing sout h into more benign waters.
    Lisa looked round as the purser passed, and he touched his cap and hesitated. She said, “Goodnight,” and he passed on, leaving her with the deck to herself. The strains of an overworked Viennese waltz floated around her.
    She had noticed that none of the officers came to the public lounge after dinner. They walked and talked with passengers at any time of the day when they happened to be off duty, and doubtless when there was dancing on deck they joined in the fun. But only the Captain used the lounge, and he restricted his visits to a single hour after dinner, when he made himself pleasant to a passenger here and there. He seemed to have met s everal of them on previous voyages. Lisa got the impression that he unbent simply from a sense of duty. Even if he enjoyed Astra’s company it would appear odd if he sat with her each evening, and Lisa was convinced that Captain Kennard would avoid committing the smallest act which might be misconstrued.
    She supposed the sea had hardened him; the sea and his