“You’ll participate at second hand.  You’ll see through my eyes, hang upon my lips, take sides, feel passions, all sorts of sympathies and indignations.  I’ve an idea,” I further developed, “that your young lady’s the person on board who will interest me most.”

“‘Mine’ indeed!  She hasn’t been near me since we left the dock.”

“There you are—­you do feel she owes you something.  Well,” I added, “she’s very curious.”

“You’ve such cold-blooded terms!” Mrs. Nettlepoint wailed.  “Elle ne sait pas se conduire; she ought to have come to ask about me.”

“Yes, since you’re under her care,” I laughed.  “As for her not knowing how to behave—­well, that’s exactly what we shall see.”

“You will, but not I!  I wash my hands of her.”

“Don’t say that—­don’t say that.”

Mrs. Nettlepoint looked at me a moment.  “Why do you speak so solemnly?”

In return I considered her.  “I’ll tell you before we land.  And have you seen much of your son?”

“Oh yes, he has come in several times.  He seems very much pleased.  He has got a cabin to himself.”

“That’s great luck,” I said, “but I’ve an idea he’s always in luck.  I was sure I should have to offer him the second berth in my room.”

“And you wouldn’t have enjoyed that, because you don’t like him,” she took upon herself to say.

“What put that into your head?”

“It isn’t in my head—­it’s in my heart, my coeur de mere.  We guess those things.  You think he’s selfish.  I could see it last night.”

“Dear lady,” I contrived promptly enough to reply, “I’ve no general ideas about him at all.  He’s just one of the phenomena I am going to observe.  He seems to me a very fine young man.  However,” I added, “since you’ve mentioned last night I’ll admit that I thought he rather tantalised you.  He played with your suspense.”

“Why he came at the last just to please me,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint.

I was silent a little.  “Are you sure it was for your sake?”

“Ah, perhaps it was for yours!”

I bore up, however, against this thrust, characteristic of perfidious woman when you presume to side with her against a fond tormentor.  “When he went out on the balcony with that girl,” I found assurance to suggest, “perhaps she asked him to come for hers.”

“Perhaps she did.  But why should he do everything she asks him—­such as she is?”

“I don’t know yet, but perhaps I shall know later.  Not that he’ll tell me—­for he’ll never tell me anything:  he’s not,” I consistently opined, “one of those who tell.”

“If she didn’t ask him, what you say is a great wrong to her,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint.

“Yes, if she didn’t.  But you say that to protect Jasper—­not to protect her,” I smiled.

“You are cold-blooded—­it’s uncanny!” my friend exclaimed.

“Ah this is nothing yet!  Wait a while—­you’ll see.  At sea in general I’m awful—­I exceed the limits.  If I’ve outraged her in thought I’ll jump overboard.  There are ways of asking—­a man doesn’t need to tell a woman that—­without the crude words.”