‘No. Quite another person. But you must not speak of a common act of duty by such an absurd name. There was never any positive danger. A young fool called Greenwood lit his cigar in the berth, and dropped the burning lucifer, which set the whole cabin in a blaze. Of course, it _might_ have resulted in a disaster. But it won’t do in this life to calculate on our “might-have-beens,” unless we wish to turn it into a book of Lamentations.’ ‘Have you missed so many chances, then, Mr Blythe? I should not have thought so.’ ‘I have missed _one_, Iris, for which no future success can ever repay me. Cannot you guess what that was?’ ‘You don’t mean that old business at the Bridge of Allan, surely?’ she said, in a low voice. ‘Indeed I do. I do not blame _you_ for one moment, remember. I know that it was not your fault, and that I alone was to blame for my presumption in daring to love you, but it has spoilt my life.’ They were standing by the side of the vessel looking into the rushing sea as he spoke to her, and they were almost alone. The evening was so cold that none of the saloon passengers were on the poop, and the quarter-deck was nearly deserted. Maggie sat in a sheltered corner under the long-boat, by the side of Will Farrell, but they were too far off, and too much engrossed by each other, to hear what their companions said. And so Iris, wrapped in a dark cloak, stood, under the cover of night, with her sad eyes upraised, and her pure profile limned against the evening sky; and Vernon Blythe lingered by her side, looking with infinite love and yearning on her face. He was dreaming all sorts of wild, impossible dreams as he did so, but the wakening was coming to him only too soon. ‘_It has spoilt your life_,’ repeated Iris, in a tone of incredulity. ‘Oh, don’t say that, Mr Blythe. You make me feel so very miserable and guilty.’ ‘Have I not just said that I acquit you of any intentional unkindness? How could you have been expected to believe that such a lad as I was should presume to lift his eyes to you? But, you see, I couldn’t help it. It was a sort of fate with me. I saw you and loved you from the beginning, and since then I have tried to put you out of my mind by every possible means, in vain. You _will_ stick there. You are so obstinate.’ Iris laughed faintly. ‘I am very, _very_ sorry. I must seem like an obstinate Irish tenant to you, who pays no rent, and yet refuses to turn out. Why don’t you evict me?’ ‘I wouldn’t evict you if I could,’ said the young man warmly. ‘I don’t think,’ went on Iris dreamily, ‘that I quite knew what I was about in those days, Mr Blythe. I was only eighteen, you know (I am twenty-three now), and I had lived all my life in the country with my father, and he never looked after me, or advised me, as my mother would have done. If my poor mother had lived, I don’t think I should ever have married--as I did marry. But I was so ignorant. I knew nothing.’