The invitation met no response.  The Honorable Percival greeted with calm disdain the laugh that followed it.  He was not in the least interested in impertinent young Hawaiians.  A matter of much greater importance occupied his attention.  He had just been informed by the purser that, owing to the crowded condition of the steamer, he would be compelled to share his stateroom with another passenger during the remainder of the voyage.  This catastrophe darkened even the tropical sun.  He was indignant with the company in San Francisco that had failed to explain this contingency; he was angry with the purser for not being able to change the disagreeable order of things; but most of all he was furious with the unknown stranger, whom in the blackness of his mood he pictured as either a fat German or a chattering American.

So perturbed was he over this circumstance that he could not refrain from venting his ill humor on somebody, and his valet being unavailable at the time, he took it out upon himself.

“No, I am not going ashore,” he said somewhat curtly to Bobby Boynton, who had organized a party with sufficient diversions to last two days instead of one.

“You’d better come along,” said Bobby.  “We are going to shoot up the town of Honolulu.”

“I don’t know that I should particularly care for that,” said Percival, coldly.

She looked at him with frank curiosity.

“Say, why don’t you ever let yourself have a good time?” she asked.  “Everybody else is going except the captain.  He’s got the gout.  Says he’s carrying his grandfather’s cocktails around in his starboard toe.”

She waited for a response, but none came.

“It’s going to be awfully stupid here with everybody gone,” she persisted.  “Why won’t you come?”

She was dressed in a short white serge and the Panama hat, which as yet was innocent of autographs.  It was astonishing what a difference the absence of conflicting colors made in her appearance.

For a moment Percival’s decision wavered before those pleading tones, but the next he caught sight of Mrs. Weston and Elise evidently watching with amused interest the result of Bobby’s bold move.

“Another dare, as I think you call it?” he asked.  “You’ll have to excuse me, Miss Boynton.  Sight-seeing is quite out of my line.”

He watched the gay party board the launch, Mrs. Weston, the two girls, and the college boys whose raucous voices and offhand manners had grated upon him ever since leaving San Francisco.  As the small boat got away from the steamer, one white-clad figure separated itself suddenly from the rest, and waved a friendly hand to him.  He started, then, lifting his cap stiffly, moved away from the rail.  The little minx was pretty; in fact, he acknowledged for the first time that she was distractingly pretty.  But she was also presuming, and presumption was a thing he would permit in no one.