“And one I was glad to have. It must have been the way he did it. There are some people who abolish one’s moral scruples, aren’t there? He was very quiet generally, but he had a way of just moving those hands of his with a little waving gesture. And when he said that of course it wasn’t right----” “Oh, he admitted that?” “Yes, but that little wave of those hands seemed to wave right and wrong right out of the way.” “Overboard?” “Absolutely overboard. Then he looked at me a moment and said: ‘That’s all I had to say. Thanks for listening to me, Miss Cochrane. Good-night.’” “And what did you say?” She rested her chin in her hand, looking sideways at me. “I said: ‘Good-night, Mr Walsh. We meet at breakfast to-morrow as usual?’” “The deuce you did!” “‘At our table?’ he asked. And I said ‘Yes.’ He gave a little laugh, and so did I, and I held out my hand. He shook hands and left me, and I went down and read with mamma.” “Nothing else said?” “He said nothing else. I believe I whispered: ‘It’ll be rather fun--because you _will_ get off!’ But I know I didn’t say anything more than that.” There was a pause. I lit another cigarette, snatching a mean advantage by stealing a look at my friend in the light of the match. She was not looking at me, but straight ahead of her: there was a pensive smile on her lips. “And what happened afterwards?” I asked. “I suppose you’ll be shocked?” “Being shocked is an emotion hostile to art--I never have it.” “Well, then, I never had such fun. Of course we were careful, because of mamma (mamma’s idea became funny too!), and because we knew what was going to happen. But we managed to get no end of talks in quiet places--the library’s very good in fine weather--and he told me all sorts of wonderful things. It was like reading the very best detective stories, only ever so much better--so much more vivid, you know.” “More personal interest?” “A thousand times! And it was fun, too, at meals, and when there was a concert, and so on. I used to find him looking at me, with his eyes all full of laughter; and I looked back at him, enjoying the secret and the way he was making fools of all the rest. We were just like two children with some game that the grown-up people know nothing about.” “He had waved your morality overboard with a vengeance,” said I. “It was the jolliest time I ever had in my life,” said Mrs Pryce. “He recited beautifully at the concert--‘The Ballad of Beau Brocade.’” “Well done him!” I said approvingly. I began rather to like the fellow myself. “And at the end he made a little speech, thanking the captain, and saying how sorry we should all be when the voyage ended. ‘And nobody sorrier than myself,’ he said, with one of his looks at me--such a twinkling look--and a tiny wave of those hands.” “He must have been the most popular man on board?”