choice. No such luck, tho', I suppose.

Bessie (From distance). Would that be luck? Harry. Yes! For them that make the whole world their home.

Bessie (Comes forward shyly). The world's a cold home—they say.

Harry (A little gloomy). So it is. When a man's done for.

Bessie. You see! (Taunting). And a ship's not so very big after all.

Harry. No. But the sea is great. And then what of the ship! You love her and leave her, Miss—Bessie's your name—isn't it?... I like that name.

Bessie. You like my name! I wonder you remembered it.... That's why, I suppose.

Harry (Slight swagger in voice). What's the odds! As long as a fellow has lived. And a voyage isn't a marriage—as we sailors say.

Bessie. So you're not married—(Movement of Harry)—to any ship.

Harry (Soft laugh). Ship! I've loved and left more of them than I can remember. I've been nearly everything you can think of but a tinker or a soldier; I've been a boundary rider; I've sheared sheep and humped my swag and harpooned a whale; I've rigged ships and skinned dead bullocks and prospected for gold—and turned my back on more money than the old man would have scraped together in his whole life.

Bessie (Thoughtfully). I could talk him over in a week.. . .

Harry (Negligently). I dare say you could. (Joking.) I don't know but what I could make shift to wait if you only promise to talk to me now and then. I've grown quite fond of your voice. I like a right woman's voice.

Bessie (Averted head). Quite fond! (Sharply.) Talk! Nonsense! Much you'd care. (Businesslike.) Of course I would have to sometimes.... (Thoughtful again.) Yes. In a week—if—if only I knew you would try to get on with him afterwards.

Harry (Leaning against lamp-post; growls through his teeth). More humouring. Ah! well, no! (Hums significantly)

Bessie (Shivering). What's this?

Harry. Why! The chorus of an up-anchor tune. Kiss and go. A deep-water ship's good-bye.... You are cold. Here's that thing of yours I've picked up and forgot there on my arm. Turn round a bit. So. (Wraps her up—commanding.) Hold the ends together in front.

Bessie (Softly). A week is not so very long.

Harry (Begins violently). You think that I———-

(Stops with sidelong look at her.) I can't dodge about in ditches and live on air and water. Can I? I haven't any money—you know.

Bessie. He's been scraping and saving up for years. All he has is for you, and perhaps...

Harry (Interrupts). Yes. If I come to sit on it like a blamed toad in a hole. Thank you.

Bessie (Angrily). What did you come for, then?

Harry (Promptly). For five quid—(Pause.)—after a jolly good spree.

Bessie (Scathingly). You and that—that—chum of yours have been drinking.

Harry (Laughs). Don't fly out, Miss Bessie—dear. Ginger's not a bad little chap. Can't take care of himself, tho'. Blind three days. (Serious.) Don't think I am given that way. Nothing and nobody can get over me unless I like. I can be as steady as a rock.

Bessie (Murmurs). Oh! I don't think you are bad.

Harry (Approvingly). You're right there. (Impulsive.) Ask the girls all over———-(Checks himself.) Ginger, he's long-headed, too, in his way—mind you. He sees the paper this morning, and says he to me, 'Hallo! Look at that, Harry—loving parent—that's five quid, sure.' So we scraped all our pockets for the fare....

Bessie (Unbelieving). You came here for that.

Harry (Surprised). What else would I want here? Five quid isn't much to ask for—once in sixteen years. (Through his teeth with a sidelong look at B.) And now I am ready to go—for my fare.

Bessie (Clasping her hands). Whoever heard a man talk like this before! I can't believe you mean it?

Harry. What? That I would go? You just try and see.

Bessie (Disregarding him). Don't you care for anyone? Didn't you ever want anyone in the world to care for you?

Harry. In the world! (Boastful.) There's hardly a place you can go in the world where you wouldn't find somebody that did care for Harry Hagberd. (Pause.) I'm not of the sort that go about skulking under false names.

Bessie. Somebody—that means a woman.

Harry. Well! And if it did.

Bessie (Unsteadily). Oh, I see how it is. You get round them with your soft speeches, your promises, and then...

Harry (Violently). Never!

Bessie (Startled, steps back). Ah—you never. . .

Harry (Calm). Never yet told a lie to a woman.

Bessie. What lie?

Harry. Why, the lie that comes glib to a man's tongue. None of that for me. I leave the sneaking off to them soft-spoken chaps you're thinking of. No! If you love me you take me. And if you take me—why, then, the capstan-song of deep-water ships is sure to settle it all some fine day.

Bessie (After a short pause, with effort). It's like your ships, then.

Harry (Amused). Exactly, up to now. Or else I wouldn't be here in a silly fix.

Bessie (Assumed indifference). Perhaps it's because you've never yet met———- (Voice fails.)

Harry (Negligently). Maybe. And perhaps never shall.... What's the odds? It's the looking for a thing.... No matter. I love them all—ships and women. The scrapes they got me into, and the scrapes they got me out of—my word! I say, Miss Bessie, what are you thinking of?

Bessie (Lifts her head). That you are supposed never to tell a lie.

Harry. Never, eh? You wouldn't be that hard on a chap.

Bessie (Recklessly). Never to a woman, I mean.

Harry. Well, no. (Serious.) Never anything that matters. (Aside.) I don't seem to get any nearer to my railway fare. (Leans wearily against the lamppost with a far-off look. B. looks at him.)

Bessie. Now what are you thinking of?

Harry (Turns his head; stares at B.). Well, I was thinking what a fine figure of a girl you are.

Bessie (Looks away a moment). Is that true, or is it only one of them that don't matter?

Harry (Laughing a little). No! no! That's true. Haven't you ever been told that before? The men...

Bessie. I hardly speak to a soul from year's end to year's end. Father's blind. He don't like strangers, and he can't bear to think of me out of his call. Nobody comes near us much.

Harry (Absent-minded). Blind—ah! of course.

Bessie. For years and years . . .

Harry (Commiserating). For years and years. In one of them hutches. You are a good daughter. (Brightening up.) A fine girl altogether. You seem the sort that makes a good chum to a man in a fix. And there's not a man in this whole town who found you out? I can hardly credit it, Miss Bessie. (B. shakes her head.) Man I said! (Contemptuous.) A lot of tame rabbits in hutches I call them.... (Breaks off.) I say, when's the last train up to London? Can you tell me?

Bessie (Gazes at him steadily). What for? You've no money.

Harry. That's just it. (Leans back against post again.) Hard luck. (Insinuating.) But there was never a time in all my travels that a woman of the right sort did not turn up to help me out of a fix. I don't know why. It's perhaps because they know without telling that I love them all. (Playful.) I've almost fallen in love with you, Miss Bessie.

Bessie (Unsteady laugh). Why! How you talk! You haven't even seen my face properly. (One step towards H., as if