After settling down in my snug cabin, I discovered the need of some masculine conversation. That session with the photographers and Mrs. Breese had provided all the feminine chatter I could stand. My steward proved a forbidding Jap with a perpetual scowl who gave me no encouragement. I discovered later he understood practically no English. Somewhere in her wanderings, Mrs. Breese had collected him, as she told me, for his scowl. So, somewhat disconsolate, I made my way to the music-room, and there I saw stretched out at his ease upon a silken couch the young man who had fought so valiantly for Mrs. Breese’s good name. I have already indicated that industry is not my forte, but Guy Thomas at ease was a picture that made even me squirm. Every line of his body bespoke self-pampering that would be unseemly in a spoiled child. His hands hung listlessly. His eyes were somnolent. He was smoking a cigarette, but even this effort seemed too much for him, for he dropped it weakly in the tray and shifted slightly for additional comfort. Finally he felt me looking at him and rose slowly. There was a challenge in the vacuous eyes now. He had not yet quite ascertained my status in the ménage. And for that matter I was but vaguely acquainted with his. “Don’t let me disturb you,” I pleaded. “I was just wondering if I could rustle up a drink.” “Ring the bell,” he drawled, indicating a tiny button set near the couch. I obeyed. He slumped back into his old position on the couch, and the Japanese steward with whom I had held preliminary negotiations appeared. “Cocktails!” Mr. Thomas commanded, and the scowling servitor nodded and disappeared. Mr. Thomas suppressed a yawn. Somehow the idea occurred to him that it would be discourteous to sit there in slothful silence. So with obvious reluctance he sat up, and lit another cigarette. I consulted my pipe. “Where are the others?” I asked after a while. “Oh, here and there,” he drawled. “Dora--Mrs. Breese--generally rests before luncheon. The Countess is up on deck, reading. I don’t know where Henry happens to be. He and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.” This was the first I had heard of it, and I suppose my expression indicated as much. “Oh yes,” he nodded, as if in answer to my unspoken query. “He’s a nice boy, but he just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand my friendship with his mother. Now you’re a man of the world--you’d have no trouble understanding. But a boy like that has curious ideas.” He flicked a cigarette. “It’s damn annoying!” His face clouded. “It spoils things, you know.” I said nothing, and he continued as if he had finally found a confidant: “I wanted everything to be pleasant, damn it. We can have a jolly fine time on this boat. I’ve been on it before, but naturally you don’t feel very comfortable if the son of your hostess is always looking at you as if you don’t belong.”