"I really did nothing," he protested, with that guilty redness spreading over his olive face, and making him more mysterious than ever. _Because he had the air of being found out in something._ And the blush began before Mrs. Shuster got as far as mentioning the _Arabic_. It was more as if he were afraid she had met him before and recognized him. "Well, other people are better judges of that than yourself," the dear lady contradicted him. "I, and a lot more first-class passengers, feel it's a shame you should be here. We want you to be up with _us_ and--and telling us all about your adventures. The favour wouldn't be from us to you, but the other way round, if you accepted the price of a cabin. We're sure you're a gentleman----" At that it was Patsey's and my turn to blush! It was such an awful thing to say to the man, though the poor woman meant so blunderingly well. P. and I were in the background--an easy place to be, because there's so much of Mrs. Shuster. We weren't even a chorus, because we hadn't made a sound or a gesture, and didn't intend to make one. But the colour effect was unrehearsed and unavoidable. I felt a regular blush of red to the head, as I used to say when I was small, and Pat grew scarlet as if she'd been suddenly slapped. I expected to see the forked lightning of scorn dart from those immense dark eyes of Storm's: but instead they crinkled up in an engaging smile. One glance the man gave Pat and me, against his own will I think: but it was a spontaneous combustion of his sense of humour. It struck a spark to ours, and I dared to smile also. Pat didn't quite dare, but looked relieved, though still evidently scared about what might come next, and intensely, painfully interested. "Thank you very much," said Mr. Storm. "I'm afraid you flatter me, madam. I make no such pretension. It's kind of you to think of promoting me, but this is my place. I shouldn't feel at home going first class, I assure you. I haven't either the manners or the clothes to make me comfortable there." "Why, I think your manners are _beautiful_," that miserable millionairess assured him, while my mouth felt dry, and I'm sure Patsey's became arid as the Libyan Desert. "We'll all risk that, if you'll come and entertain us with stories of your adventures. As for clothes, I can take up a collection for you from among the gentlemen of the first class. A shirt here, a coat there. They'd be delighted." "Thank you again," responded the victim, still smiling. "But I should be--a misfit. And I haven't a story worth telling. I'm no Scherezade. I'm very grateful for your interest, madam, but my best way of showing it is to stay where I am--and where I belong." "You're ever so much too modest," the unfortunate lady persisted. "Isn't he, Mrs. Winston?" I prickled all over like a cactus. "I think Mr. Petrel--I mean Mr. Storm--can decide for himself better than we can," I stammered.