And the Boy glared at de Roannes with unspeakable profanity in his eyes, while the girl laughed to herself and enjoyed it all as girls do enjoy that sort of thing.

It was delightful, this game of speaking eyes and lips.

    “Oh, the little more, and how much it is! 
    And the little less, and what worlds away!”

But it was, as she could dimly see, a game that might prove exceedingly dangerous to play, and the Count had spoiled it all, anyway.  And a curious flutter in her heart, as she watched the Boy take his punishment with as good grace as possible, pled for his pardon until she finally desisted and bade the little company good night.

At her departure the men took a turn at bridge, but none of them seemed to care much for the cards that night and the Boy soon broke away.  He was about to withdraw to his stateroom in chagrin when quite unexpectedly he found Opal standing by the rail, wrapped in a long cloak.  She was gazing far out toward the distant horizon, the light of strange, puzzling thoughts in the depths of her eyes.  She did not notice him until he stood by her side, when she turned and faced him defiantly.

“Opal,” he said, “there was one poet of life and love whom we did not quote in our little discussion to-night.  Do you remember Tennyson’s words,

    “’A man had given all earthly bliss
    And all his worldly worth for this,
    To waste his whole heart in one kiss
      Upon her perfect lips?’

Let them plead for me the pardon I know no better way to sue for—­or explain!”

The girl was silent.  That little flutter in her heart was pleading for him, but her head was still rebellious, and she knew not which would triumph.  She put one white finger on her lip, and wondered what to say to him.  She would not look into his eyes—­they bothered her quite beyond all reason—­so she looked at the deck instead, as though hoping to find some rule of conduct there.

“I am sorry, Opal,” went on the pleading tones, “that is, sorry that it offended you.  I can’t be sorry that I did it—­yet!”

After a moment of serious reflection, she looked up at him sternly.

“It was a very rude thing to do, Paul!  No one ever—­”

“Don’t you suppose I know that, Opal?  Did you think that I thought—­”

“How was I to know what you thought, Paul?  You didn’t know me!”

“Oh, but I do.  Better than you know yourself!”

She looked up at him quickly, a startled expression in her soft, lustrous eyes.

“I—­almost—­believe you do—­Paul.”

“Opal!” He paused.  She was tempting him again.  Didn’t she know it?

“Opal, can’t—­won’t you believe in me?  Don’t you feel that you know me?”

“I’m not sure that I do—­even yet—­after—­that!  Oh, Paul, are you sure that you know yourself?”

“No, not sure, but I’m beginning to!”

She made no reply.  After a moment, he said softly, “You haven’t said that you forgive me, yet, Opal!  I know there is no plausible excuse for me, but—­listen!  I couldn’t help it—­I truly couldn’t!  You simply must forgive me!”