expert reader of lip movements, but I have an impression that he's quoting rhymed and metrical verses to her."
"He is," the painter whispered. "Listen."
The poker table had become deathly silent in some crisis of suspense; the noises of air and sea through which the "Duumvir" rushed were closed out by the panelled walls; and though the throbbing of the vessel's heart was always beating up from fathoms underfoot and faintly vibrant even here, the stillness of the room permitted some phrases spoken in a lowered voice to be heard by the two intent listeners. They caught but a little; for the card players completed their crisis with an outburst of exclamations all bitter except one, which was uttered in the hoarsest voice at the table: "Push, losers, push!"
"Yes; he's reached that stage already," the painter said, alluding not to the triumphant Tinker, but to Ogle. "It's verse. Something of his own, do you suppose?"
"I do indeed suppose so," Macklyn returned, thus supposing accurately out of his own experience. "And addressed to her or descriptive of her, I haven't a doubt in the world. By George, but she's giving a wonderful performance!"
