“What does she know about me?” “Ah you must ask her—I can’t tell you!” “I don’t care what she knows,” said my young lady. After a moment she went on: “She must have seen I ain’t very sociable.” And then, “What are you laughing at?” she asked. “Well”—my amusement was difficult to explain—“you’re not very sociable, and yet somehow you are. Mrs. Peck is, at any rate, and thought that ought to make it easy for you to enter into conversation with her.” “Oh I don’t care for her conversation—I know what it amounts to.” I made no reply—I scarcely knew what reply to make—and the girl went on: “I know what she thinks and I know what she says.” Still I was silent, but the next moment I saw my discretion had been wasted, for Miss Mavis put to me straight: “Does she make out that she knows Mr. Porterfield?” “No, she only claims she knows a lady who knows him.” “Yes, that’s it—Mrs. Jeremie. Mrs. Jeremie’s an idiot!” I wasn’t in a position to controvert this, and presently my young lady said she would sit down. I left her in her chair—I saw that she preferred it—and wandered to a distance. A few minutes later I met Jasper again, and he stopped of his own accord to say: “We shall be in about six in the evening of our eleventh day—they promise it.” “If nothing happens, of course.” “Well, what’s going to happen?” “That’s just what I’m wondering!” And I turned away and went below with the foolish but innocent satisfaction of thinking I had mystified him. IV “I DON’T know what to do, and you must help me,” Mrs. Nettlepoint said to me, that evening, as soon as I looked in. “I’ll do what I can—but what’s the matter?” “She has been crying here and going on—she has quite upset me.” “Crying? She doesn’t look like that.” “Exactly, and that’s what startled me. She came in to see me this afternoon, as she has done before, and we talked of the weather and the run of the ship and the manners of the stewardess and other such trifles, and then suddenly, in the midst of it, as she sat there, on no visible pretext, she burst into tears. I asked her what ailed her and tried to comfort her, but she didn’t explain; she said it was nothing, the effect of the sea, of the monotony, of the excitement, of leaving home. I asked her if it had anything to do with her prospects, with her marriage; whether she finds as this draws near that her heart isn’t in it. I told her she mustn’t be nervous, that I could enter into that—in short I said what I could. All she replied was that she _is_ nervous, very nervous, but that it was already over; and then she jumped up and kissed me and went away. Does she look as if she has been crying?” Mrs. Nettlepoint wound up. “How can I tell, when she never quits that horrid veil? It’s as if she were ashamed to show her face.” “She’s keeping it for Liverpool. But I don’t like such incidents,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint. “I think I ought to go above.” “And is that where you want me to help you?”