“Yes—­so Mr. Porterfield says.”

Something in the way she uttered these words made me laugh—­they were so calm an implication that the gentleman in question didn’t live up to his principles.  But I checked myself, asking her if she expected to remain in Europe long—­to what one might call settle.

“Well, it will be a good while if it takes me as long to come back as it has taken me to go out.”

“And I think your mother said last night that it was your first visit.”

Miss Mavis, in her deliberate way, met my eyes.  “Didn’t mother talk!”

“It was all very interesting.”

She continued to look at me.  “You don’t think that,” she then simply stated.

“What have I to gain then by saying it?”

“Oh men have always something to gain.”

“You make me in that case feel a terrible failure!  I hope at any rate that it gives you pleasure,” I went on, “the idea of seeing foreign lands.”

“Mercy—­I should think so!”

This was almost genial, and it cheered me proportionately.  “It’s a pity our ship’s not one of the fast ones, if you’re impatient.”

She was silent a little after which she brought out:  “Oh I guess it’ll be fast enough!”

That evening I went in to see Mrs. Nettlepoint and sat on her sea-trunk, which was pulled out from under the berth to accommodate me.  It was nine o’clock but not quite dark, as our northward course had already taken us into the latitude of the longer days.  She had made her nest admirably and now rested from her labours; she lay upon her sofa in a dressing-gown and a cap that became her.  It was her regular practice to spend the voyage in her cabin, which smelt positively good—­such was the refinement of her art; and she had a secret peculiar to herself for keeping her port open without shipping seas.  She hated what she called the mess of the ship and the idea, if she should go above, of meeting stewards with plates of supererogatory food.  She professed to be content with her situation—­we promised to lend each other books and I assured her familiarly that I should be in and out of her room a dozen times a day—­pitying me for having to mingle in society.  She judged this a limited privilege, for on the deck before we left the wharf she had taken a view of our fellow-passengers.

“Oh I’m an inveterate, almost a professional observer,” I replied, “and with that vice I’m as well occupied as an old woman in the sun with her knitting.  It makes me, in any situation, just inordinately and submissively see things.  I shall see them even here and shall come down very often and tell you about them.  You’re not interested today, but you will be tomorrow, for a ship’s a great school of gossip.  You won’t believe the number of researches and problems you’ll be engaged in by the middle of the voyage.”

“I?  Never in the world!—­lying here with my nose in a book and not caring a straw.”