“I do not wish to talk about nothing,” she returned; “and when I have anything to say to you, I will say it.” “This sounds alarming. Do you mean that I am forbidden to speak to you unless I am first addressed?” “I mean,” she said passionately, but in a low voice, “that I wish I might never have to speak to you again.” Caerleon looked at her in utter bewilderment, not believing that she could be serious. “In the old days you would have apologised to me as soon as you had said that,” he said, trying to treat the speech as a joke. But she rose and looked him in the face. “I wish I had never seen you,” she said. “This last month has been the most miserable time of my life.” “What have I done?” asked Caerleon of himself helplessly, as she turned and went below. “Have I teased her too much? But no--she could never have meant all the things she has said, and she couldn’t expect me to think she did. I don’t know what to do.” She did not appear in the saloon again that evening, and he sat through dinner gloomy and conscience-stricken. The Princess had letters to write when the meal was over, and Caerleon and Cyril went on deck for their usual constitutional. Cyril broke the silence first, as they tramped steadily and soundlessly backwards and forwards. “I say, old man,” he began, with some hesitation, “excuse my asking, but how long are you going to let that girl treat you in this way?” “In what way?” inquired Caerleon, too much relieved at finding some one with whom he might discuss his perplexities to feel angry at his brother’s interference. “Why, the way she goes on from morning to night, slanging you all day long, and snapping your head off if you open your mouth! She’s making you the laughing-stock of the ship. When you come on deck together the men begin to grin.” This was a slight exercise of the imagination on Cyril’s part, although it was true that he had seen Captain Binks close his left eye on one occasion in a way that expressed unutterable things, intending the action for the benefit of Wright, who ignored it loftily. “Well,” said Caerleon, “it pleases her--at least, I suppose it does, or I don’t see why she should do it--and it doesn’t hurt me much. But what makes her so angry with me I can’t tell.” “I can. It’s her belief that you’re laughing at her.” “But that’s absurd.” “No, it isn’t. She thinks you don’t take her seriously, and the modern woman must be taken seriously, or die.” “But Nadia is not a modern woman,” said Caerleon, placidly. “Oh, I know she is a cross between a Puritan and an early Christian; but even those excellent people would have turned rusty if they had thought they were being humbugged. And she is in deadly earnest, and you do nothing but rag her.” “Not intentionally, on my word and honour. But what am I to do? I can never manage to hit on the right thing to say. How did you learn to understand women, Cyril?”