They went to Beathe’s for luncheon, which was also Bessie’s breakfast. There, it may have been that she was ready to forget herself, knowing it would keep for a little. In any event, she seemed to see Bellair as he ordered for her, as if recalling that he had made many things move easily of late, and that it was pleasant to have these matters, even luncheons, conducted by another. Thinking of him, the voyage was instantly associated: “I said last night that I didn’t like that woman,” she began. “I didn’t mean just that, of course. But a woman can see another woman better than a man. There are women who keep their mouths shut and get great reputations for being wise and all that. They never associate with women. You’ll always find them with men, playing sister and helping and saying little. Men get to think they’re the whole thing----” “I suppose there are,” said Bellair. He wished she had not picked up this particular point again; and yet a certain novelty about this impressed him now, and recurred many times afterward--that it was she who had broached the subject. “Do you think a man knows men better than a woman does?” he asked. Bessie had not thought of it; she was not sure. Nor was Bellair. “The fact is, it doesn’t greatly matter what women think of women, and what men think of men--compared to what men and women think of each other,” he observed. “You say you didn’t know that other man at first--that preacher,” she remarked. “That’s true. There had to be danger--I had to hear his voice in danger.” Bellair was lifted to his life-theme. He had never really told it in one piece. He did not mean to now, but Fleury came clearly to mind. The food was served and it was quiet behind the palms. If he could only say something for her heart. She seemed ready. Points of human interest were crowding to mind--perhaps he could hold her with them. “... His every thought was for others,” he was saying. “I disliked him at first, but he was so kind and good-natured throughout that he could not fail to impress me a bit, but I didn’t really see him before the night of the wreck, when he arose to take things in hand. It was not noise, nor voice, but a different force. He seemed to rise--so that the huge Stackhouse was just a squealing pig before him. He had no fear. You looked into his face and wanted to be near him, and to do what he said. I caught his secret. A fool would. It was because he wasn’t thinking of himself. It seems, Bessie, as sure as you live--that the more a man gives out in that pure way Fleury did for us all--the more power floods into him. It came to him in volumes. We all knew it--even Stackhouse----