“I was just looking out there, and wondering what they were all doing at home--at the foot of the dear old mountain,” said Daireen, allowing herself to be led away. “That is what most people would call moping, dear,” said the lady who had come up. She was a middle-aged lady with a pleasant face, though her figure was hardly what a scrupulous painter would choose as a model for a Nausicaa. “Perhaps I was moping, Mrs. Crawford,” Daireen replied; “but I feel the better for it now.” “My dear, I don't disapprove of moping now and again, though as a habit it should not be encouraged. I was down in my cabin, and when I came on deck I couldn't understand where you had disappeared to. I asked the major, but of course, you know, he was quite oblivious to everything but the mutiny at Cawnpore, through being beside Doctor Campion.” “But you have found me, you see, Mrs. Crawford.” “Yes, thanks to Mr. Glaston; he knew where you had gone; he had been watching you.” Daireen felt her face turning red as she thought of this Mr. Glaston, whoever he was, with his eyes fixed upon her movements. “You don't know Mr. Glaston, Daireen?--I shall call you 'Daireen' of course, though we have only known each other a couple of hours,” continued the lady. “No, of course you don't. Never mind, I'll show him to you.” For the promise of this treat Daireen did not express her gratitude. She had come to think the most unfavourable things regarding this Mr. Glaston. Mrs. Crawford, however, did not seem to expect an acknowledgment. Her chat ran on as briskly as ever. “I shall point him out to you, but on no account look near him for some time--young men are so conceited, you know.” Daireen had heard this peculiarity ascribed to the race before, and so when her guide, as they walked towards the stern of the vessel, indicated to her that a young man sitting in a deck-chair smoking a cigar was Mr. Glaston, she certainly did not do anything that might possibly increase in Mr. Glaston this dangerous tendency which Mrs. Crawford had assigned to young men generally. “What do you think of him, my dear?” asked Mrs. Crawford, when they had strolled up the deck once more. “Of whom?” inquired Daireen. “Good gracious,” cried the lady, “are your thoughts still straying? Why, I mean Mr. Glaston, to be sure. What do you think of him?” “I didn't look at him,” the girl answered. Mrs. Crawford searched the fair face beside her to find out if its expression agreed with her words, and the scrutiny being satisfactory she gave a little laugh. “How do you ever mean to know what he is like if you don't look at him?” she asked.