“No, Hephzy,” I admitted, resignedly, “I won't laugh then, I promise you. If _I_ ever reach the stage where I see a Little Frank I promise you I sha'n't laugh. I'll believe diseases of the brain are contagious, like the measles, and I'll send for a doctor.” The captain met us again in the dining-room that evening. He came over to our table and chatted for some time. His visit caused quite a sensation. Shipboard society is a little world by itself and the ship's captain is the head of it. Persons who would, very likely, have passed Captain Stone on Fifth Avenue or Piccadilly without recognizing him now toadied to him as if he were a Czar, which, in a way, I suppose he is when afloat. His familiarity with us shed a sort of reflected glory upon Hephzy and me. Several of our fellow-passengers spoke to us that evening for the first time. A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire, was not among the Lounge habitues; the smoke-room was his accustomed haunt. But the next forenoon as I leaned over the rail of the after promenade deck watching the antics of the “Stokers' Band” which was performing for the benefit of the second-class with an eye toward pennies and small silver from all classes, Heathcroft sauntered up and leaned beside me. We exchanged good-mornings. I thanked him for the wine. “Quite unnecessary, Knowles,” he said. “Least I could do, it seems to me. I pulled quite a tidy bit from that inside information of yours; I did really. Awfully obliged, and all that. You seem to have a wide acquaintance among the officers. That captain chap tells us he knew your father--the sailor one you told me of, you understand.” Having had but one father I understood perfectly. We chatted in a inconsequential way for a short time. In the course of our conversation I happened to mention that I wrote, professionally. To my surprise Heathcroft was impressed. “Do you, really!” he exclaimed. “That's interesting, isn't it now! I have a cousin who writes. Don't know why she does it; she doesn't get her writings printed, but she keeps on. It is a habit of hers. Curious dissipation--eh, what? Does that--er--Miss--that companion of yours, write also?” I laughed and informed him that writing was not one of Hephzibah's bad habits. “Extraordinary woman, isn't she,” he said. “I met her just now, walking about, and I happened to mention that I was taking the air. She said she wouldn't quarrel with me because of that. The more I took the better she would like it; she could spare about a gale and a quarter and not feel--What did she call it? Oh yes, 'scrimped.' What is 'scrimped,' may I ask?” I explained the meaning of “scrimped.” Heathcroft was much amused. “It WAS blowing a bit strong up forward there,” he declared. “That was a clever way of putting it, wasn't it?” “She is a clever woman,” I said, shortly. Heathcroft did not enthuse. “Oh,” he said dubiously. “A relative of yours, I suppose.” “A cousin, that's all.”