I was about to take the chair that the young man had left vacant when Kinney objected.

“He was very much interested in our conversation,” Kinney said, “and he may return.”

I had not noticed any eagerness on the part of the young man to talk to Kinney or to listen to him, but I did not sit down.

“I should not be surprised a bit,” said Kinney, “if that young man is no end of a swell.  He is a Harvard man, and his manner was most polite.  That,” explained Kinney, “is one way you can always tell a real swell.  They’re not high and mighty with you.  Their social position is so secure that they can do as they like.  For instance, did you notice that he smoked a pipe?”

I said I had not noticed it.

For his holiday Kinney had purchased a box of cigars of a quality more expensive than those he can usually afford.  He was smoking one of them at the moment, and, as it grew less, had been carefully moving the gold band with which it was encircled from the lighted end.  But as he spoke he regarded it apparently with distaste, and then dropped it overboard.

“Keep my chair,” he said, rising.  “I am going to my cabin to get my pipe.”  I sat down and fastened my eyes upon my book; but neither did I understand what I was reading nor see the printed page.  Instead, before my eyes, confusing and blinding me, was the lovely, radiant face of the beautiful lady.  In perplexity I looked up, and found her standing not two feet from me.  Something pulled me out of my chair.  Something made me move it toward her.  I lifted my hat and backed away.  But the eyes of the lovely lady halted me.

To my perplexity, her face expressed both surprise and pleasure.  It was as though either she thought she knew me, or that I reminded her of some man she did know.  Were the latter the case, he must have been a friend, for the way in which she looked at me was kind.  And there was, besides, the expression of surprise and as though something she saw pleased her.  Maybe it was the quickness with which I had offered my chair.  Still looking at me, she pointed to one of the sky-scrapers.

“Could you tell me,” she asked, “the name of that building?” Had her question not proved it, her voice would have told me not only that she was a stranger, but that she was Irish.  It was particularly soft, low, and vibrant.  It made the commonplace question she asked sound as though she had sung it.  I told her the name of the building, and that farther uptown, as she would see when we moved into midstream, there was another still taller.  She listened, regarding me brightly, as though interested; but before her I was embarrassed, and, fearing I intruded, I again made a movement to go away.  With another question she stopped me.  I could see no reason for her doing so, but it was almost as though she had asked the question only to detain me.

“What is that odd boat,” she said, “pumping water into the river?”