an inveterate smoker—and the company of men, of whhom the chief officer—a lengthy and cadaverous individual called Verte—and myself were the most favoured.
It was not long before she confided to me the trouble about her husband—he drank too much, and he took morphia, the result being that half his time was spent in the smoking and card rooms, and the other half in a state of semi-stupefaction in his cabin.
I was out for a holiday, however. I certainly didn't want to be bothered with women, and I am afraid I turned a deaf ear to her pretty sayings, and refused to enter into any flirtation.
"I believe you are made of wood. Dr. d'Escombe," she said one day to me. "Will nothing move you? Are you quite emotionless?"
"No, my dear child," I said, smiling at her, "but everything of that kind in the East is too easy and simple—and it's far too hot."
"Then I'm not going to waste my time on you," she laughed. "I'm going to conquer that dear, ugly captain—or else his immaculate chief."
"Both much too easy," I answered. "But count on me to help you."
