She struggled into the large sleeves, and he made no effort to help her. "You don't like music, do you?" she asked naively as she settled back in her chair. "Well, yes," he said slowly. "I should say the thing I dislike least in the world is music." "Then why didn't you come in to hear me play?" asked Guinevere, emboldened by the darkness. "Oh, I could hear it outside," he assured her; "besides, I have a pair of defective lamps in my head. The electric lights hurt my eyes." He struck a match as he spoke to relight his pipe, and by its flare she caught her first glimpse of his face, a long, slender, sensitive face, brooding and unhappy. "I guess you are Mr. Hinton," she said as if to herself. He turned with the lighted match in his hand. "How did you know that?" "The captain told me. He pointed out you and Mr. Mathews, but he didn't tell me any of the rest." "A branch of your education that can afford to remain neglected," said Mr. Hinton as he puffed at his pipe. The door of the saloon swung open, and the chubby gentleman appeared in the light, shading his eyes, and calling out that they were all waiting for the little canary-bird. "I don't want to go," whispered Guinevere, shrinking back into the shadow. The chubby gentleman peered up and down the deck, then, assailed by a gust of wind, beat a hasty retreat. "I don't like him," announced Guinevere, drawing a breath of relief. "It isn't just because he's fat and ugly; it's the silly way he looks at you." "What a pity you can't tell him so!" said her companion, dryly. "Such blasphemy might do him good. He is the scion of a distinguished family made wealthy by the glorious sale of pork." "Are all the gentlemen millionaires?" asked Guinevere in awe. "Present company excepted," qualified Hinton. "It'll seem awful small to them down in the Cove. Why, we haven't got room enough at the two hotels to put them all up." "Oh, you live there, do you?" "Yes; I've just been up at Coreyville spending the night. I used to hate it down at the Cove, it was so little and stupid; but I like it better now." There was a long silence, during which each pursued a widely different line of thought. "We have got a newspaper at the Cove now," announced Guinevere. "It's an awful nice paper, called 'The Opp Eagle.'" "Opp?" repeated Hinton. "Oh, yes, that was the man I telephoned to. What sort of chap is he, anyhow?" "He's awfully smart," said Guinevere, her cheeks tingling. "Not so much book learning, but a fine brain. The preacher says he's got a natural gift of language. You ought to see some of his editorials." "Hiding his light under a bushel, isn't he?"