" "Who's lost?" demanded Ireton. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. The bolder members in the House left their places to go lobbyward, grinning. "You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here.
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