That was on Monday, the third day out. Up to that time Miss Lee had not noticed me, except once, when she found me scrubbing the deck, to comment on a corner that she thought might be cleaner, and another time in the evening, when she and Vail sat in chairs until late, when she had sent me below for a wrap. She looked past me rather than at me, gave me her orders quietly but briefly, and did not even take the trouble to ignore me. And yet, once or twice, I had found her eyes fixed on me with a cool, half-amused expression, as if she found something in my struggles to carry trays as if I had been accustomed to them, or to handle a mop as a mop should be handled and not like a hockey stick—something infinitely entertaining and not a little absurd. But that morning, after they had settled to bridge, she followed me to the rail, out of earshot I straightened and took off my cap, and she stood looking at me, unsmiling. “Unclench your hands!” she said. “I beg your pardon!” I straightened out my fingers, conscious for the first time of my clenched fists, and even opened and closed them once or twice to prove their relaxation. “That’s better. Now—won’t you try to remember that I am responsible for your being here, and be careful?” “Then take me away from here and put me with the crew. I am stronger now. Ask the captain to give me a man’s work. This—this is a housemaid’s occupation.” “We prefer to have you here,” she said coldly; and then, evidently repenting her manner: “We need a man here, Leslie. Better stay. Are you comfortable in the forecastle?” “Yes, Miss Lee.” “And the food is all right?” “The cook says I am eating two men’s rations.” She turned to leave, smiling. It was the first time she had thrown even a fleeting smile my way, and it went to my head. “And Williams? I am to submit to his insolence?” She stopped and turned, and the smile faded. “The next time,” she said, “you are to drop him!” But during the remainder of the day she neither spoke to me nor looked, as far as I could tell, in my direction. She flirted openly with Vail, rather, I thought, to the discomfort of Mrs. Johns, who had appropriated him to herself—sang to him in the cabin, and in the long hour before dinner, when the others were dressing, walked the deck with him, talking earnestly. They looked well together, and I believe he was in love with her. Poor Vail! Turner had gone below, grimly good-humored, to dress for dinner; and I went aft to chat, as I often did, with the steersman. On this occasion it happened to be Charlie Jones. Jones was not his name, so far as I know. It was some inordinately long and different German inheritance, and so, with the facility of the average crew, he had been called Jones. He was a benevolent little man, highly religious, and something of a philosopher. And because I could understand German, and even essay it in a limited way, he was fond of me.