“My sister—­my own sister says this to me!  This is quite the unkindest.  I’m going to offer myself to the daughter of the redwoods at once.”

Shirley and Armitage talked—­as people will on ship-board—­of everything under the sun.  Shirley’s enthusiasms were in themselves interesting; but she was informed in the world’s larger affairs, as became the daughter of a man who was an authority in such matters, and found it pleasant to discuss them with Armitage.  He felt the poetic quality in her; it was that which had first appealed to him; but he did not know that something of the same sort in himself touched her; it was enough for those days that he was courteous and amusing, and gained a trifle in her eyes from the fact that he had no tangible background.

Then came the evening of the fifth day.  They were taking a turn after dinner on the lighted deck.  The spring stars hung faint and far through thin clouds and the wind was keen from the sea.  A few passengers were out; the deck stewards went about gathering up rugs and chairs for the night.

“Time oughtn’t to be reckoned at all at sea, so that people who feel themselves getting old might sail forth into the deep and defy the old man with the hour-glass.”

“I like the idea.  Such people could become fishers—­permanently, and grow very wise from so much brain food.”

“They wouldn’t eat, Mr. Armitage.  Brain-food forsooth!  You talk like a breakfast-food advertisement.  My idea—­mine, please note—­is for such fortunate people to sail in pretty little boats with orange-tinted sails and pick up lost dreams.  I got a hint of that in a pretty poem once—­

“’Time seemed to pause a little pace,
  I heard a dream go by.’”

“But out here in mid-ocean a little boat with lateen sails wouldn’t have much show.  And dreams passing over—­the idea is pretty, and is creditable to your imagination.  But I thought your fancy was more militant.  Now, for example, you like battle pictures—­” he said, and paused inquiringly.

She looked at him quickly.

“How do you know I do?”

“You like Detaille particularly.”

“Am I to defend my taste?—­what’s the answer, if you don’t mind?”

“Detaille is much to my liking, also; but I prefer Flameng, as a strictly personal matter.  That was a wonderful collection of military and battle pictures shown in Paris last winter.”

She half withdrew her hand from his arm, and turned away.  The sea winds did not wholly account for the sudden color in her cheeks.  She had seen Armitage in Paris—­in cafes, at the opera, but not at the great exhibition of world-famous battle pictures; yet undoubtedly he had seen her; and she remembered with instant consciousness the hours of absorption she had spent before those canvases.

“It was a public exhibition, I believe; there was no great harm in seeing it.”