“Countess,” he began timidly.

“Oh, Doctor Claudius, is that you?  Sit down.”  He sat down on the transom, so that he could see the evening light fall through the port-hole above him on her side face, and as the vessel rose and fell the rays of the setting sun played strangely on her heavy hair.

“I have not seen you all day,” she said.

“No, Countess.”  He did not know what to say to her.

“I trust you are none the worse for your foolish performance this morning?” Her voice was even and unmodulated, not too friendly and not too cold.

“I am, and I am not.  I am unspeakably the worse in that I displeased you.  Will you forgive me?”

“I will forgive you,” in the same tone.

“Do you mean it?  Do you mean you will forgive me what I said to you that—­the other night?”

“I did not say that,” she answered, a little weariness sounding with the words.  Claudius’s face fell.

“I am sorry,” he said very simply.

“So am I. I am disappointed in you more than I can say.  You are just like all the others, and I thought you were different.  Do you not understand me?”

“Not entirely, though I will try to.  Will you not tell me just what you mean to say?”

“I think I will,” she answered, looking up, but not towards Claudius.  She hesitated a moment and then continued, “We are not children, Dr. Claudius; let us speak plainly, and not misunderstand each other.”  She glanced round the cabin as if to see if they were alone.  Apparently she was not satisfied.  “Move my chair nearer to the sofa, please,” she added; and he rose and did her bidding.

“I have not much to say,” she went on, “but I do not want to say it before the whole ship’s company.  It is this:  I thought I had found in you a friend, a man who would be to me what no one has ever been—­a friend; and I am disappointed, for you want to be something else.  That is all, except that it must not be thought of, and you must go.”

An Englishman would have reproached her with having given him encouragement; an Italian would have broken out into a passionate expression of his love, seeking to kindle her with his own fire.  But the great, calm Northman clasped his hands together firmly on his knee and sat silent.

“You must go—­” she repeated.

“I cannot go,” he said honestly.

“That is all the more reason why you should go at once,” was the feminine argument with which she replied.

“Let us go back to two days ago, and be as we were before.  Will you not forget it?”

“We cannot—­you cannot, and I cannot.  You are not able to take back your words or to deny them.”

“May God forbid!” said he very earnestly.  “But if you will let me be your friend, I will promise to obey you, and I will not say anything that will displease you.”

“You cannot,” she repeated; and she smiled bitterly.