“In that case,” Aynesworth said slowly, “I presume that I need say no more.”

“Unless it amuses you,” Wingrave answered, “it really is not worth while.”

“Perhaps,” Aynesworth remarked, “it is as well that I should tell you this.  I shall put the situation before Mrs. Travers exactly as I see it.  I shall do my best to dissuade her from any further or more intimate intercourse with you.”

“At the risk, of course,” Wingrave said, “of my offering you—­this?”

He drew a paper from his pocket book, and held it out.  It was the return half of a steamer ticket.

“Even at that risk,” Aynesworth answered without hesitation.

Wingrave carefully folded the document, and returned it to his pocket.

“I am glad,” he said, “to find that you are so consistent.  There is Mrs. Travers scolding the deck steward.  Go and talk to her!  You will scarcely find a better opportunity.”

Aynesworth rose at once.  Wingrave in a few moments also left his seat, but proceeded in the opposite direction.  He made his way into the purser’s room, and carefully closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Travers greeted Aynesworth without enthusiasm.  Her eyes were resting upon the empty place which Wingrave had just vacated.

“Can I get your chair for you, Mrs. Travers,” Aynesworth asked, “or shall we walk for a few minutes?”

Mrs. Travers hesitated.  She looked around, but there was obviously no escape for her.

“I should like to sit down,” she said.  “I am very tired this morning.  My chair is next Mr. Wingrave’s there.”

Aynesworth found her rug and wrapped it around her.  She leaned back and closed her eyes.

“I shall try to sleep,” she said.  “I had such a shocking night.”

He understood at once that she was on her guard, and he changed his tactics.

“First,” he said, “may I ask you a question?”

She opened her eyes wide, and looked at him.  She was afraid.

“Not now,” she said hurriedly.  “This afternoon.”

“This afternoon I may not have the opportunity,” he answered.  “Is your husband going to meet you at New York, Mrs. Travers?”

“No!”

“Are you going direct to Boston?”

She looked at him steadily.  There was a slight flush of color in her cheeks.

“I find your questions impertinent, Mr. Aynesworth,” she answered.

There was a short silence.  Aynesworth hated his task and hated himself.  But most of all, he pitied the woman who sat by his side.

“No!” he said, “they are not impertinent.  I am the looker-on, you know, and I have seen—­a good deal.  If Wingrave were an ordinary sort of man, I should never have dared to interfere.  If you had been an ordinary sort of woman, I might not have cared to.”

She half rose in her chair.

“I shall not stay here,” she began, struggling with her rug.