The next night Staniford found her alone in the waist of the ship, and drew up a stool beside the rail where she sat. “We all enjoyed your singing so much, last night, Miss Blood. I think Mr. Hicks plays charmingly, but I believe I prefer to hear your voice alone.” “Thank you,” said Lydia, looking down, demurely. “It must be a great satisfaction to feel that you can give so much pleasure.” “I don't know,” she said, passing the palm of one hand over the back of the other. “When you are a _prima donna_ you mustn't forget your old friends of the Aroostook. We shall all take vast pride in you.” It was not a question, and Lydia answered nothing. Staniford, who had rather obliged himself to this advance, with some dim purpose of showing that nothing had occurred to alienate them since the evening, of their promenade, without having proved to himself that it was necessary to do this, felt that he was growing angry. It irritated him to have her sit as unmoved after his words as if he had not spoken. “Miss Blood,” he said, “I envy you your gift of snubbing people.” Lydia looked at him. “Snubbing people?” she echoed. “Yes; your power of remaining silent when you wish to put down some one who has been wittingly or unwittingly impertinent.” “I don't know what you mean,” she said, in a sort of breathless way. “And you didn't intend to mark your displeasure at my planning your future?” “No! We had talked of that. I--” “And you were not vexed with me for anything? I have been afraid that I--that you--” Staniford found that he was himself getting short of breath. He had begun with the intention of mystifying her, but matters had suddenly taken another course, and he was really anxious to know whether any disagreeable associations with that night lingered in her mind. With this longing came a natural inability to find the right word. “I was afraid--” he repeated, and then he stopped again. Clearly, he could not tell her that he was afraid he had gone too far; but this was what he meant. “You don't walk with me, any more, Miss Blood,” he concluded, with an air of burlesque reproach. “You haven't asked me--since,” she said. He felt a singular value and significance in this word, since. It showed that her thoughts had been running parallel with his own; it permitted, if it did not signify, that he should resume the mood of that time, where their parting had interrupted it. He enjoyed the fact to the utmost, but he was not sure that he wished to do what he was permitted. “Then I didn't tire you?” he merely asked. He was not sure, now he came to think of it, that he liked her willingness to recur to that time. He liked it, but not quite in the way he would have liked to like it. “No,” she said. “The fact is,” he went on aimlessly, “that I thought I had rather abused your kindness. Besides,” he added, veering off, “I was afraid I should be an interruption to the musical exercises.”