And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. The latter walked carelessly towards the hatch, and leaning his back against the place whence the spike had been removed, so as completely to hide it, continued smoking his pipe as coolly as if nothing had happened. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. Because of the Dance. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. “She”, you say. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect.
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