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She carefully bandaged his arm and said, 'Which war - Korea?'

He shook his head. 'No, my war was a long time ago, angel. A thousand years ago.' She pressed surgical tape across the loose ends of the bandage and looked quickly up into his face. The sharp triangle that formed his chin was covered with a dark stubble that accentuated the hollowness of his cheeks and the dark sombreness of the eyes. For a brief moment he looked down at her and then he said, 'You've done this sort of thing before,' and gestured to his bandaged arm.

She nodded. 'A little - but even that was too much.'

Suddenly she began to shiver uncontrollably and Hagen slipped his arm about her shoulders and squeezed. 'You're all right,' he told her. 'It's all over.' She nodded several times and broke away from him, and stood over by the window, her back towards him. He opened a drawer and by a miracle discovered a clean shirt. By the time he was properly dressed again she had recovered.

'That was rather silly of me,' she said. 'The essential feminine weakness coming out, I suppose.'

Hagen laughed. 'What you need is a drink.' He poured gin into two moderately clean glasses and, crossing the room, kicked open the window and led the way out on to the balcony. The girl sat in the only chair and Hagen leaned on the balcony rail and for a short time there was silence.

'Do you think I might have a cigarette?' Her voice spoke gently from the darkness. He fumbled in his pocket and finally discovered the battered packet. As the match flared in his cupped hands, and she leaned forward, the delicate beauty of her face was thrown into relief. He held the match for a moment longer than was necessary, and they looked briefly into each other's eyes, and then he flicked the match out into the darkness in a long, curving arc. 'I'd like to thank you for what you did back there.' She spoke slowly and carefully as though searching for words.

'Girls like you shouldn't be on the waterfront in the early hours,' he told her.

As if she had suddenly arrived at a decision her voice sounded again from the darkness, this time more assured and confident. 'My name is Rose Graham.'

So he had been right about one of her parents, at least. He half-turned towards her. 'Mark Hagen. Captain Hagen I'm known as in these parts.'

'Oh, you are a sea captain?'

'I have a small boat,' he told her. It came to him that he was wrong. The operative word was 'had'. I had a small boat, he thought. What have I got now? Another thought struck him, more immediate, more urgent. 'Was I in time back there?' he said. 'I mean, did those mugs really harm you or anything?' He felt suddenly awkward.

The chair creaked as she stood up. 'They didn't harm me, Captain Hagen. It wasn't that kind of an assault.'

She moved to the rail and stood beside him so that his shoulder touched hers lightly each time he stirred. The wind blew in from the sea and the mist rolled across the harbour, and the riding lights of the ships glowed faintly through the gaps that appeared every so often when the wind tore a hole in the grey curtain. From the balcony the view was magnificent and suddenly Hagen felt at peace and restless, happy and discontented, all at the same time. It had been a bad day and the past came too easily to mind. He decided that it was all the girl's fault. It had been a long time since he had been so close to someone like her. He sighed and straightened up.

She laughed lightly. 'What are you thinking about? It must be something pretty sad to make you sigh so heavily.'

He grinned and took out another cigarette. 'I was contemplating a misspent life, angel,' he told her. 'I seem to be making a habit of it lately. I must be getting old.'

She laughed again. 'How ridiculous. You aren't old. You're still a young man.'

'I'm thirty-five,' he said. 'When you've lived the life I have, then believe me - it's old.' A thought came to him and he smiled to himself and added, 'How old are you, anyway?'

She said eighteen, in a small voice. Hagen laughed. 'There you