“Very likely; but you may not have realized the same things. Mrs. Travers is a married woman, with a husband in Boston, and two little children, of whom, I believe, she is really very fond. She is a foolish, good-natured little woman, who thinks herself clever because her husband has permitted her to travel a good deal, and has evidently been rather fascinated by the latitudinarianism of continental society. She is a little afraid of being terribly bored when she gets back to Boston, and she is very sentimental.” “I had no idea,” Wingrave remarked, “that you had been submitting the lady and her affairs to the ordeal of your marvelous gift of analysis. I rather fancied that you took no interest in her at all.” “I did not,” Aynesworth answered, “until last night.” “And last night?” he repeated questioningly. “I found her on deck--crying. She had been tearing up some photographs, and she talked a little wildly. I talked to her then for a little time.” “Can’t you be more explicit?” Wingrave asked. Aynesworth looked him in the face. “She gave me the impression,” he said, “that she did not intend to return to her husband.” Wingrave nodded. “And what have you to say to me about this?” he asked. “I have no right to say anything, of course,” Aynesworth answered. “You might very properly tell me that it is no concern of mine. Mrs. Travers has already compromised herself, to some extent, with the people on board who know her and her family. She never leaves your side for a moment if she can help it, and for the last two or three days she has almost followed you about. You may possibly derive some amusement from her society for a short time, but--afterwards!” “Explain yourself exactly,” Wingrave said. “Is it necessary?” Aynesworth declared brusquely. “Talk sensibly to her! Don’t encourage her if she should really be contemplating anything foolish!” “Why not?” “Oh, hang it all!” Aynesworth declared. “I’m not a moralist, but she’s a decent little woman. Don’t ruin her life for the sake of a little diversion!” Wingrave, who had been holding a cigar case in his hand for the last few minutes, opened it, and calmly selected a cigar. “Aren’t you a little melodramatic, Aynesworth?” he said. “Sounds like it, no doubt,” his companion answered, “but after all, hang it, she’s not a bad little sort, and you wouldn’t care to meet her in Piccadilly in a couple of years’ time.” Wingrave turned a little in his chair. There was a slight hardening of the mouth, a cold gleam in his eyes.