As he sat there, watching the cold flutter of the dingy white canvas that covered the life-boat, made fast in front of him, and which was shaken into strong ripples by the winter wind, making a crackling little noise, he liked to think that they both saw and heard the same things, and he longed to ask her if the ridiculous little cannon, with its canvas cover, did not remind her of a child on all fours, under a table-cloth, playing _bogy_. Why couldn’t he have a little innocent talk with her? The restrictions imposed by society seemed to him most absurd. He became aware that the people between him and the object of his thoughts were, one by one, going away. At last, a man and a woman sitting next to him got up and went below, and now, with a quickening of the heart, he realised that the being nearest him, across that row of empty chairs, was the girl whose image had now out-crowded every other from his heart. The maid was on the other side of her, but they were both quite silent. Presently he ventured to turn his head and look toward her. Only her pure profile was in view, but he felt that she saw with her averted eyes that he was looking at her. Her rounded cheek seemed to return his gaze, and he was almost certain that it reddened. Of course, he might be mistaken in thinking that she had any consciousness of his existence. He had no real evidence of the fact, but the unreal was enough for him. He was always frank, in dealing with himself, though often the reverse of it, in interpreting himself to others. For instance, he had always carefully concealed the fact that he was, by nature, sentimental and romantic; but he knew it of himself absolutely. He was not at all surprised to find himself, now, in love with a woman to whom he had never spoken. It had always belonged to his old ideal of himself that he should love at first sight, if he ever loved at all, in the real sense. This girl--if her nature and character corresponded to her personality--was absolutely all that he ever dreamed of; and he had not a fear that, in knowing her, he should find himself disappointed. Indeed, what he felt was, that he absolutely knew her already. It gave him a slight twinge of regret to think she must be so many years younger than himself--it must be ten or twelve, for she could not be over twenty-two or twenty-three. But then she was a being with whom he might renew his youth--indeed, she had already called into fiery life all the most ardent impulses of his earliest manhood. He had made up his mind now that he would make it his first business, on landing, to get himself formally introduced to her. He had satisfied himself, by marks on their luggage, that their destination was New York, so he knew he was not in danger of losing sight of them. They were sure to belong to his own world, and he knew he could easily make their acquaintance. As he sat there, so near her that by a slight turn of the head he could see her, he felt impatient at the formalities