She lifted her eyes to him, deprecating her enthusiasm, which was too palpably a pose, and again Heriot was conscious that the opportunity was with him, if he could but grasp it. They had paused by the taffrail, and he stood looking at her, trying to speak the words that would translate their relations to a definite footing. He no longer had any doubt as to her answer; he could foresee her reply--at least the manner of her reply--with disturbing clearness. He knew that she would hesitate an instant, and droop her head, and ultimately murmur correct phrases that would exhilarate him not at all. In imagination he already heard her tones, as she promised to be his wife. He supposed, as they were screened from observation, that he might take her hand. How passionless, how mechanical and flat it would all be! He replied with a commonplace, and after a few moments they continued their stroll. When he turned in, however, he reproached himself more forcibly than he had done yet, and his vacillation was by no means at an end. He was at war, not with his judgment, but with his instinct, and it was the perception of this fact that always increased his perturbation. They landed the following day, and, after being introduced to Mr. Van Buren in the custom-house, Heriot drove to an hotel. The hotel he found excellent; New York he found wonderful, but a city different from what he had expected. He had vaguely pictured New York as a Paris where everybody talked English. This was before the introduction of the automobile had changed the face of Paris, and the face of the Parisian--before it incidentally reduced the number of half-fed horses barbarously used in that city, which is the negro's paradise, and the "horse's hell"--and the Boulevard was even more unlike Broadway then than now. Broadway, broad in name only till it spread into the brightness of Union Square, suggested London more than Paris--London in an unprecedented burst of energy. The tireless vigour of the throng, the ubiquitous rush of the Elevated Railway confused him. Though he paid homage to the cuisine of America, which proved as much as much superior to that of England as the worst transatlantic train was to our best of that period, he told himself that he was disappointed. The truth was that, not wishing to take the Van Burens' invitations too literally, and having no other acquaintances here, he was dull. American hospitality, however, is the most charming in the world, and he spent several very agreeable hours inside the big brownstone house. Nothing could have exceeded the geniality of Van Buren's manner, nor was this due solely to the position of his visitor and a hope of their becoming connected. The average American business man will show more kindness to a stranger, who intrudes into his office, than most Englishmen display to one who comes to them with a letter of introduction from a friend, and Van Buren's welcome was as sincere as it was attractive.