"Oh! oh!" giggles Mrs. Ball. "Miss Blanche said the reading made her tired." The Baron shuts up the book with a snap. "Madame Rogair, I am at your sairvice!" Without looking at me he raises his cap to Mrs. Steele and follows the "Church of England." "_Did_ you say the reading tired you?" asks Mrs. Steele. "I believe I did, or something of the kind." "Pity! Those people will make all they can out of it. The Baron told me at breakfast that Mrs. Rogers had asked him to join their party at the next port." "But he won't"--I open my journal to write up the previous day. The morning was rather dull, to tell the truth, and the sounds of revelry that floated up from the scene of the practising below were not too "sacred" to be irritatingly attractive. But even after luncheon the Baron remains with the "Church of England." "Gone over to the enemy. I told you so," Mrs. Steele observes, as we sit alone in our corner of the deck, while over on the opposite side Baron de Bach stands laughing and chatting with pretty Miss Rogers. "Mrs. Steele," I whisper, "I believe he only does it for our edification and because I said the reading tired me. Let us go to our stateroom; the wind is on our side to-day." We read and sleep in seclusion until evening. CHAPTER V [Illustration: Chapter Five] THE BARON IS CRAZED WITH MADNESS At dinner, refreshed with my long rest, I feel unusually light-hearted and gay. I laugh and chat with Senor Noma and the rough old Captain, till Mrs. Steele leans over and gives me a look of surprise. Not once do the eyes of the Peruvian turn in my direction, and he leaves the table before dessert. He is not visible on deck when we go up later and, after talking a while to the others, I start off on a tour of discovery. Down at the further end of the steamer, to windward of the smokestack, stands the Baron in a depressed attitude smoking a pipe and looking out to sea. "Oh, you're here!" I call out in friendly fashion. "I've been looking for you. I'm sorry if I was rude about the reading"--I look as meek and penitent as I know how. The Baron takes out his pipe and walks to the vessel's side, where he knocks out the ashes. "Well!" I insist, "I've said I'm sorry, and in English the proper reply to that is 'I forgive you.'" A curious, lingering look out of those dark eyes of his. "I forgif you," he says, as a child repeats a lesson. "And we must be friends again, _nicht wahr_?" I hold out my hand. "No, Senorita." He takes the hand, but shakes his head. "No!" I echo; "why not?" "Because I haf nefer been your friend. I haf always loaf you, I haf forget vhat it vas like not to loaf you. It ees true you vere scarce polite about dthe reading. I did not know I bore you. I feel it fery deep. It might not matter to zome Nordthern zhentlemen, but I am dthe most sensible man you ever know." "Sensible!" I say, in a tone scarcely flattering, trying to keep my lips from twitching.