The pause became uneasy.  If Jim had betrayed some confusion—­blushed stammered, protested—­all would have been well; but he waited calmly.  Captain Evan had only two manners—­his polished, first-class maimer and his ship manner, the manner with which he worked the Francis Cadman—­and it was a mere step from one to the other.  For a moment he was perilously near assuming his natural and most successful manner, blasting Done to the depths for a high-stomached, adjectival swab, and commanding him out of hand to accept the proposed honours and emoluments with proper respect and gratitude, and be hanged to him.

‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Macdougal gracefully, ’only if you approve, Mr. Done.’  But the inference was that he could do nothing less with such eyes openly beseeching him.

‘I can’t agree to this,’ said Jim decisively, addressing himself to the Captain.

‘Oh, come, you must not be shy!’ murmured the lady.

‘I cannot agree to any demonstration or accept any gifts,’ persisted Jim.  ‘You’re very kind, I believe; but I’m reserved—­I detest display.’

’Still, you know, my man, brave actions like yours cannot be totally disregarded by feeling people.’

‘To be sure!’ from the lady.

‘Captain Evan,’ said the young man firmly, ’ever since I came on board the Francis Cadman I’ve endeavoured to keep myself to myself.  I asked nothing from anybody on this ship, but simply to be left alone.  That’s all I ask now.  Perhaps I appear boorish to the lady, but the instincts of a lifetime must be respected.’  Jim spoke like an old man.  The lady found him very impressive.

‘Very well, Done,’ said the Captain, looking searchingly into Jim’s strong young face, ‘we’ll say no more about the matter.’  He moved away, but the lady extended the slim gloved fingers again, lowering her eyes for an effective unveiling.

‘I respect your feelings,’ she said, as if making great concession.

Really, the boy was most interesting, so handsome, so unusual.  She smiled upon him like a guardian angel with exquisite teeth, and the scamp turned again to the sea, apostrophizing in fo’c’sle idiom all interfering fools and sentimental humbugs.

III

Lucy Woodrow did not appear on the deck until after nightfall.  Jim understood that she would insist upon expressing lifelong gratitude with the usual effusion and the usual tears.  He feared the ordeal, and prepared himself for it.  He had seen the girl often during the voyage, sometimes accompanied by a blonde youth, whose beautiful clothes and exquisite manners afforded unfailing material for primitive satire in the forecastle, but, as a rule, quite alone, muffled in a dark, hooded cloak, watching the sea, always with her face turned yearningly back, as if England and home lay straight out along the vessel’s wake.  She was middling tall, eighteen perhaps, with a thin but supple and pleasing figure, and a quiet, smileless face, that wanted only happiness to make it beautiful.