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World, seeking new Objects of a Resentment inexhaustible."
    "Oh dear," Mason clutching his head. "Suppose...we sail upon some other Day, then?"
    "Mason, pray You,— 'tis the Age of Reason," Dixon reminds him, "we're Men of Science. To huz must all days run alike, the same number of identical Seconds, each proceeding in but one Direction, irreclaimable...? If we would have Omens, why, let us recall that the Astronomer's Symbol for Friday is also that of the planet Venus herself,— a good enough Omen, surely... ?"
    "I tell you," the young Impostress merrily raising a Finger, "French Frigates will be where they will be, day of the week be damn'd,— especially St.-Foux, with La Changhaienne. You know of the Ecole de Pira-terie at Toulon? Famous. He has lately been appointed to the Kiddean Chair."
    Mason and Dixon would like to stay, the one to fuss and the other to flirt, but as they now notice, a considerable Queue has form'd behind them. There are
    Gamesters in Trouble, Sweet-Hearts untrue, Sailors with no one to bid them adieu,
    Roistering Fops and the Mast-Pond Brigade, all Impatient to chat with the Sibylline Maid, singing,
    Let us go down, to Hepsie's tonight, Maybe tonight, she'll show us the Light,— Maybe she'll cackle, and maybe she'll cry, But for two and a kick she won't spit in your Eye.
    She warn'd Ramillies sailors, Beware of the Bolt,
    And the Corsica-bound of Pa-oli's Revolt,—
    From lottery Tickets to History's End,
    She's the mis'rable, bug-bitten sailor's best friend, singing,
    Let us go down, &c.
    "Nice doing Business with you, Boys, hope I see yese again," with an amiable Nod for Dixon.
    Back at the Cock-fights, Fender-Belly Bodine comes lurching across their bow, curious. "So what'd she have to say?"
    Something about crazy Frigate Captains sailing out of Brest, is all either of them can remember by now.
    "Just what she told my Mauve, and for free. Good. We'll have a fight, Gents. And if it's Le Chisel, we'll have a Stern-chase, too. Back on old H.M.S. Inconvenience, we wasted many a Day and Night watching that fancy Counter get smaller by the minute. And when he'd open'd far enough from us, it pleas'd him to put out the Lanthorn in his Cabin, as if to say, 'Toot fini, time to frappay le Sack.' Skipper saw that light go out, he always mutter'd the same thing,— 'The Dark take you, Le Chisel, and might you as readily vanish from my Life,'— and then we'd slacken Sail, and come about, and the real Work would begin,— beating away, unsatisfied once more, against the Wind." Foretopman Bodine pausing to squeeze the nearest Rondures of a young Poll who has shimmer'd in from some Opium Dream in the Vicinity. Like Hepsie, Mauve is far from what she pretends. Most men are fool'd into seeing a melancholy Waif, when in reality she's the most cheerful of little Butter-Biscuits, who has escap'd looking matronly only thanks to that constant Exertion demanded by the company of Sailors. She and Hepsie in fact share quarters in Portsea, as well as a Wardrobe noted, even here upon the Point, for its unconsider'd use of Printed Fabricks.
    "She's a wonderful old woman, 's Hepsie," says Mauve. "Fortunes have been won heeding her advice, as lost ignoring it. She tells you beware, why, she has reckon'd your Odds and found them long— She is Lloyd's of Portsmouth. Believe her."
    Later, around Dawn, earnestly needing a further Word with Hepsie or the Dog, Mason can find no trace of either, search as he may. Nor will anyone admit to knowing of them at all, let alone their Whereabouts. He will continue to search, even unto scanning the shore as the Seahorse gets under way at last, on Friday, 9 January 1761.
     
     
    Had it proved of any help that the Revd had tried to follow the advice of Epictetus, to keep before him every day death, exile, and loss, believing it a condition of his spiritual Contract with the world as given? When the French sail came a-twinkling,— with never-quite-invisible death upon the Whir fore and aft,