There were a couple of well-dressed women sewing or doing some kind of needlework and conversing on one of the sofas, and on another sofa a gentleman sat reading. These, with the stewards, were all the people in the saloon. The gentleman and the ladies looked at us when we approached, and all three of them rose. The ladies came and shook hands with Mary, who introduced me to them; but I forget their names. They began to praise me; the gentleman struck in, and asked permission to shake me by the hand. They had heard my story: it was a beautiful romance; in short, they overpowered me with civilities, and made me so nervous that I had scarcely the heart to go on deck. Of course it was all very kindly meant; but then what were my exploits? Nothing to make money out of, nothing to justify my appearance on the boards of a London theatre, nothing to furnish a column of wild writing to a newspaper, nothing to merit even the honour of a flattering request from a photographic company. I very exactly knew what I _had_ done, and was keenly alive to the absurdity of any heroizing process. However, I had sense enough to guess that what blushing honours were thrust upon me would be very short-lived. Who does not thank God at some time or other in his life that there _is_ such a thing as oblivion? So we went on deck; I overhearing one of the ladies talk some nonsense about her never having read or heard of anything more deliciously romantic and exciting than the young sailor rescuing a pretty girl from a wreck and falling in love with her. "Did you hear that, Mary?" I whispered. "Yes," she answered. "Was it romantic?" "I think so." "And exciting?" "Dreadfully." "And did they live happily ever afterwards?" "We shall see." "Darling, it _is_ romantic, and it _is_ exciting, to us, and to no one else. Yes, very romantic now that I come to think of it; but all has come about so gradually that I have never thought of the romance that runs through our story. What time did we have to think? Mutineers out of Wapping are no polite garnishers to a love story; and romance must be pretty stoutly bolt-roped not to be blown to smithereens by a hurricane."