She sat down with an involuntary sigh of weariness.  She had been on her feet most of the time since eleven o’clock.  She relaxed in contact with the back of the bench, and he could see the contour of her throat and chin thrown up in relief against the background of shadow.  The whole relaxed attitude of her slim body betrayed exhaustion.

“I hope you will not blame me too severely,” Tunis stammered.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I fear you will after you have taken time to think it over.  But—­but perhaps there may be some way in which I can repair the damage I have done.”

She looked at him levelly, curiously.

“You are a seaman, are you not?”

“I’m Tunis Latham.  I own the schooner Seamew, and command her.  We are going to run back and forth from Boston to the Cape—­Cape Cod.”

“Oh!  I could scarcely fill a position on your schooner, Captain Latham.”

She smiled again.  It was a weary smile, however, not like the former flash of amusement she had shown.  Her head drooped as her mind sank into unhappy retrospection.  Tunis looked aside at her with a great hunger in his heart to take all her trouble—­no matter what it was—­upon his own mind and give her the freedom she needed.  What or who the girl was did not matter.  Even what she had done, or what she had not done meant little to Tunis Latham.

She was the one girl in all this world who had ever interested him beyond a passing moment, and he was convinced that she alone would ever interest him.  The cheap environment of their meeting meant nothing.  If she was free, her own mistress, and he could get her, he meant to make this girl his wife.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he said directly.  “Won’t you?  I have been frank with you.”

“Why, so you have,” said the girl.  There might have been a strata of laughter underlying the words; yet her face was sober enough.  “If you really wish to know, Captain Latham, my name is Macklin.”

“Miss Macklin?” he asked, a positive tremor in his voice.

“Certainly.  Sheila Macklin, spinster.”

Tunis drew a long breath.  That was enough!  He would take his chance in the game with any other man as long as she was not promised.  But there was no use in spoiling everything by being too precipitate.  The captain of the Seamew might be simple, but he was not the man to ruin a thing through impulsiveness.  That exhibition in the restaurant was hooked up with wrath.

There had been an undercurrent of thought in his mind ever since he had met this girl for the second time, and it was quite a natural thought, comparing her with Ida May Bostwick.  If Sheila Macklin had only been Ida May, after all!  It was a ridiculous idea.  Not a feature or betrayed trait of character was like any that the disappointing great-niece of Prudence Ball possessed.  This girl sitting beside Tunis on the bench and Ida May Bostwick were as little alike as though they were inhabitants of two different worlds.