“Oh, I don't know about Miss Blood--I don't know what's the matter,” said Staniford. “Look here, Dunham; I want to talk with you--I want to tell you something--I want you to advise me--I--There's only one thing that can explain it, that can excuse it. There's only one thing that can justify all that I've done and said, and that can not only justify it, but can make it sacredly and eternally right,--right for her and right for me. Yes, it's reason for all, and for a thousand times more. It makes it fair for me to have let her see that I thought her beautiful and charming, that I delighted to be with her, that I--Dunham,” cried Staniford, “I'm in love!” Dunham started at the burst in which these ravings ended. “Staniford,” he faltered, with grave regret, “I _hope_ not!” “You hope not? You--you--What do you mean? How else can I free myself from the self-reproach of having trifled with her, of--” Dunham shook his head compassionately. “You can't do it that way. Your only safety is to fight it to the death,--to run from it.” “But if I don't _choose_ to fight it?” shouted Staniford,--“if I don't _choose_ to run from it? If I--” “For Heaven's sake, hush! The whole ship will hear you, and you oughtn't to breathe it in the desert. I saw how it was going! I dreaded it; I knew it; and I longed to speak. I'm to blame for not speaking!” “I should like to know what would have authorized you to speak?” demanded Staniford, haughtily. “Only my regard for you; only what urges me to speak now! You _must_ fight it, Staniford, whether you choose or not. Think of yourself,--think of her! Think--you have always been my ideal of honor and truth and loyalty--think of her husband--” “Her husband!” gasped Staniford. “Whose husband? What the deuce--_who_ the deuce--are you talking about, Dunham?” “Mrs. Rivers.” “Mrs. Rivers? That flimsy, feather-headed, empty-hearted--eyes-maker! That frivolous, ridiculous--Pah! And did you think that I was talking of _her_? Did you think I was in love with _her_?” “Why,” stammered Dunham, “I supposed--I thought--At Messina, you know--” “Oh!” Staniford walked the deck's length away. “Well, Dunham,” he said, as he came back, “you've spoilt a pretty scene with your rot about Mrs. Rivers. I was going to be romantic! But perhaps I'd better say in ordinary newspaper English that I've just found out that I'm in love with Miss Blood.” “With _her_!” cried Dunham, springing at his hand. “Oh, come now! Don't _you_ be romantic, after knocking _my_ chance.” “Why, but Staniford!” said Dunham, wringing his hand with a lover's joy in another's love and his relief that it was not Mrs. Rivers. “I never should have dreamt of such a thing!” “Why?” asked Staniford, shortly. “Oh, the way you talked at first, you know, and--”