Miss Wilbur gave up and began again. "I think it would be interesting to tell each other a little of our lives--who we are, and where we came from. For instance I'm willing to begin--I'm a New Yorker. My mother died when I was sixteen, and I have been at the head of my father's house ever since--he has retired from business. We are quite free, and we travel a great deal. I came down here on a yacht. You may ask why I left it--well, a little difficulty arose--a situation. The owner, one of my best and oldest friends--" She paused. As she talked, questions had floated through her mind. Does he take in the sort of person I am at home? Does he realize how his toil is lightened by the contrast of my presence in the benighted spot? Does he know what a privilege it is to be cast away with me? He was saying to himself: "If only I can get home before the first, I'll increase that quarterly dividend." She took up her narrative. "The owner, as I say, was one of my best and oldest friends; and yet, you know--" "And yet you quarreled like one o'clock." "Oh, no," said Miss Wilbur. "We did not quarrel. It would have been better if we had." "Just sulked, you mean?" This was more than she could bear. "He wanted to marry me," she said firmly. "Not really!" he exclaimed, and then, studying her more carefully, he added: "But of course--very naturally. I am sure to some types of men you would be excessively desirable." This was the nearest approach to a compliment that she had had since the ship struck, and she gulped at it eagerly. "Desirable is not quite the word," she answered. "But perhaps I should rather have you think of me as desirable than not at all," and she smiled fascinatingly. "Great Cæsar's ghost!" he exclaimed. "Did I say I was thinking of you? But there, I mean--I mean--" But it was unnecessary to complete the sentence, for Miss Wilbur rose, with what dignity a tattered dressing gown allowed, and moved away. He followed her and explained with the utmost civility where there was another beach, how she should spread out her clothes to the sun, and added gravely, holding up one finger: "And remember to keep in the shade yourself." "Oh, the sun never affects me," said Juliana. This answer plainly tried him, but with some self-control he merely repeated his injunction in exactly the same words. Miss Wilbur's costume was not elaborate. It comprised, all told, a night-gown, a pink quilted dressing-gown, a pair of men's sneakers, and a bit of Cartier jewelry about her throat. She wished that dressing-gown had been more becoming. Just before she sailed she had sent her maid out to buy something warm, and the pink atrocity had been the result. She had thought it did not matter then, but, now that she might have to spend the rest of her life in it, she wished she had taken the trouble to choose it herself.