“Poor child!  She probably sees now that you were quite right.”

“Maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t.  She’s a wily little scamp all right.  I discovered that the second day out.  I’d forbidden her to write any letters to the ranch, so she was keeping a log-book which she was going to mail at every port.”

“And were you hard-hearted enough to confiscate it?”

“I was.  At least I ordered her to give it to me on the spot, and she said she’d chuck it overboard first.”

“And did she!”

“She did,” said the captain, with a grim chuckle.

“You don’t understand that girl,” said Mrs. Weston.  “I’m quite sure she’d be amenable if she were handled right.  However, she doesn’t seem to be breaking her heart.  Between Andy and the Honorable she’s finding consolation.”

“Most women do,” said the captain, with one of those flashes of bitterness that sent all the good humor scurrying out of his face.

“Of course, she’s just playing with Andy,” Mrs. Weston hurried on, fearful of the memories she had stirred; “but Mr. Hascombe is different.  He is so good-looking and so polished, almost any girl would have her head turned a bit by his attentions.”

“You don’t mean to say that you think Bobby—­”

“I can’t quite make out.  She doesn’t seem to see much of him on deck, but at the table she hasn’t eyes or ears for any one else.  You watch her.”

“Trust my Nelson eye!” said the captain.

When Antipodal Day arrived, every one felt called upon to celebrate it.  The guileless tried to see the imaginary line of the meridian which the sophisticated pointed out to them on the water; the cream-peppermint lady went so far as to say she felt the jar as the steamer passed over it.  Conjectures, witty, mathematical, or inane, were made as to the identity of to-day, if yesterday was Friday and to-morrow going to be Saturday.

During the morning Percival wandered disconsolately from one part of the ship to another.  Despite the fact that he was quite determined to keep away from Bobby, he chafed under her seeming indifference.  After that intimate hour together in the wind-shelter it was strange that she could be so oblivious of his presence.  It was distasteful to him to have to signal the train of her attention.  To be sure, a very little signal served,—­a word, a look, a thoughtful gesture,—­but he preferred a homage that required no prompting.  Moreover, she was guilty of “smiling on all she looked upon,” and her acceptance of Andy Black into the ever-widening circle of her admirers offended him deeply.

The day dragged interminably.  By five o’clock in the afternoon a tango-tea was in progress, and it seemed to Percival that everybody on board was dancing except the missionaries and himself.  Even they were taking part as spectators, having secured their places half an hour before the appointed time in order not to miss a moment of the shocking exhibition.