"Then, on your own showing, I am nothing, for I am not candid," he answered. "On the contrary, it is an unadvisable virtue, and one calculated to corner you without loophole. And you certainly have not been boring me." He thought, sardonically, what any one of those whom he had caustically defined as her "poodles" would give for an hour or so of similar boredom, if it involved Lilith all to himself. Some of this must have been reflected in his eyes, for Lilith broke in quickly: "No, you are not candid. I accept the amendment. I can see the sarcasm in your face." "But not on that account," he rejoined tranquilly, and at the same time dropping his hand on to hers as it rested on the taffrail. The act--an instinctive one--was a dumb protest against the movement she had made to withdraw. And as such Lilith read it; more potent in its impulsiveness than any words could have been. "Listen!" he went on. "I suppose there is a sort of imp of scepticism sitting ever upon one shoulder, and that is what you saw. Something in my thoughts suggested a droll contrast, that was all. So far from boring me, you have afforded me an intensely agreeable surprise." "Now you are sneering again. I will not talk any more." He recognized in her tone a quick sensitiveness--not temper. Accordingly his own took on an unconscious softness, a phenomenally unwonted softness. "Don't be foolish, child. You know I was doing nothing of the sort. Go on with what you were saying at once." "What was I saying? Oh, I remember. That idea that board-ship life shows people in their real character. Do you believe in it?" "Only in the case of those who have no real character to show. Wherein is a paradox. Those who have got any--well, don't show it, either on board ship or on shore." "I believe you are right. Now, my own character, do you think it shows out more readable on board than it would on shore." "Do you think you have me so transparently as that? What was I saying just now on that head?" "I see. Really, though, I had no ulterior motive. I asked the question in perfect good faith. Tell me--if anyone can, you can. Tell me. Shall I make a success--a good thing of life? I often wonder." She threw up her head with a quick movement, and the wide, serious eyes, fixed full upon his, seemed to flash in the starlight. He met the glance with one as earnest and unswerving as her own. "You rate my powers of vaticination too high," he said slowly, "and--you are groping after an ideal." "Perhaps. Tell me, though, what you think, character-reader as you are. Shall I make a success of life?" "I should think the chances were pretty evenly balanced either way, inclining, if anything, to the reverse." "Thanks. I shall remember that." "But you are not obliged to believe it." "No. I shall remember it. And now I must go below; it is nearly time for putting out the saloon lights. Good-night. I have enjoyed our talk so much."