Being “not a bit like the rest” of her sister dryads, she refrained from mentioning this habit to Mr. Rolls, whose prowling place was on higher decks.  Not that she was still what he would have called “standoffish” with him.  That would have been silly and Victorian after the grapefruit and chocolates and novels, to say nothing of balm by the bottleful.  The last dress she had worn on the first day of their acquaintance, the “Yielding Heart,” had to a certain extent prophesied her attitude with the one man who knocked at the dryad door.  Miss Child not only thought Mr. Rolls “might be rather nice,” but was almost sure he was.  She was nice to him, too, in dryad land, when he paid his visits to the sisterhood, but she did not “belong on his deck.”

By and by, however, he discovered her in the mackintosh and veil.  It was one night when a young playwright who had seized on him as prey wished to find a quiet place to be eloquent about the plot.

“There’s a deck two below,” said the aspirant for fame, “where nobody prowls except a young female panther tied up in a veil.”

Five minutes later Peter Rolls took off his cap to the female panther.  The playwright noticed this, but was too much interested in himself and the hope of securing a capitalist to care.  In sketching out his comedy he was blind to any other possibilities of drama, and so did not see Peter’s eagerness to get rid of him.  He was even pleased when, after a few compliments, Rolls junior said:  “Look here, you’d better leave me to think over what you’ve told me.  I fix things in my memory that way.  And maybe when I’ve got it straight in my head I’ll—­er—­mention it to a man I know.”

As the playwright was shivering, he obeyed with alacrity; and in the warmth of the smoking-room revelled in the picture of his tame capitalist pacing a cold deck, lost to the sea’s welter in thoughts of that marvellous last act.

But it was a first act which was engaging Peter Rolls’s attention, and he, though the only male character in it (by choice), had to learn his part as he went on.

The play began by his joining the leading lady. (This has been done before, but seldom with such a lurch and on such sloping boards.)

It would have been a mockery to say “good evening” on a night so vile, and Mr. Rolls began by asking Miss Child if he might walk with her.

“Or tango,” said she.  “This deck is teaching me some wonderful new steps.”

“I wish you’d teach them to me,” said Peter.

“I can’t, but the ship can.”

“Did you ever dance the tango?” he wanted to know.

“Yes.  In another state of existence.”

This silenced him for an instant.  Then he skipped at least two speeches ahead, whither his thoughts had flown.  “Say, Miss Child, I wish you’d tell me something about yourself.”

“There isn’t anything interesting to tell, thank you, Mr. Rolls.”

“If that’s your only reason, I think you might let me judge.  Honestly, I don’t want to intrude or be curious.  But you’re so different from the others.”