During the day Morris and Katherine sat together on the sunny side of the ship looking at the Welsh coast. Their books lay unread on the rug, and there were long periods of silences between them. “I don’t believe,” said Morris, “that anything could be more perfectly delightful than this. I wish the shaft would break.” “I hope it won’t,” answered the young lady; “the chances are you would be as cross as a bear before two days had gone past, and would want to go off in a small boat.” “Oh, I should be quite willing to go off in a small boat if you would come with me. I would do that now.” “I am very comfortable where I am,” answered Miss Katherine. “I know when to let well enough alone.” “And I don’t, I suppose you mean?” “Well, if you wanted to change this perfectly delightful day for any other day, or this perfectly luxurious and comfortable mode of travel for any other method, I should suspect you of not letting well enough alone.” “I have to admit,” said George, “that I am completely and serenely happy. The only thing that bothers me is that to-night we shall be in Liverpool. I wish this hazy and dreamy weather could last for ever, and I am sure I could stand two extra days of it going just as we are now. I think with regret of how much of this voyage we have wasted.” “Oh, you think it was wasted, do you?” “Well, wasted as compared with this sort of life. This seems to me like a rest after a long chase.” “Up the deck?” asked the young lady, smiling at him. “Now, see here,” said Morris, “we may as well understand this first as last, that unfortunate up-the-deck chase has to be left out of our future life. I am not going to be twitted about that race every time a certain young lady takes a notion to have a sort of joke upon me.” “That was no joke, George. It was the most serious race you ever ran in your life. You were running away from one woman, and, poor blind young man, you ran right in the arms of another. The danger you have run into is ever so much greater than the one you were running away from.” “Oh, I realise that,” said the young man, lightly; “that’s what makes me so solemn to-day, you know.” His hand stole under the steamer rugs and imprisoned her own. “I am afraid people will notice that,” she said quietly. “Well, let them; I don’t care. I don’t know anybody on board this ship, anyhow, except you, and if you realised how very little I care for their opinions you would not try to withdraw your hand.” “I am not trying very hard,” answered the young woman; and then there was another long silence. Finally she continued— “I am going to take the steamer chair and do it up in ribbons when I get ashore.” “I am afraid it will not be a very substantial chair, no matter what you do with it. It will be a trap for those who sit in it.” “Are you speaking of your own experience?” “No, of yours.” “George,” she said, after a long pause, “did you like her very much?” “Her?” exclaimed the young man, surprised. “Who?”