“‘Their’ own—­you mean Jasper’s and hers?”

“No indeed.  I mean her mother’s and Mrs. Allen’s; the girl’s too of course.  They put themselves on us by main force.”

“Oh yes, I can testify to that.  Therefore I’m glad too.  We should have missed it, I think.”

“How seriously you take it!” Mrs. Nettlepoint amusedly cried.

“Ah wait a few days!”—­and I got up to leave her.

CHAPTER III

The Patagonia was slow, but spacious and comfortable, and there was a motherly decency in her long nursing rock and her rustling old-fashioned gait, the multitudinous swish, in her wake, as of a thousand proper petticoats.  It was as if she wished not to present herself in port with the splashed eagerness of a young creature.  We weren’t numerous enough quite to elbow each other and yet weren’t too few to support—­with that familiarity and relief which figures and objects acquire on the great bare field of the ocean and under the great bright glass of the sky.  I had never liked the sea so much before, indeed I had never liked it at all; but now I had a revelation of how in a midsummer mood it could please.  It was darkly and magnificently blue and imperturbably quiet—­save for the great regular swell of its heartbeats, the pulse of its life; and there grew to be something so agreeable in the sense of floating there in infinite isolation and leisure that it was a positive godsend the Patagonia was no racer.  One had never thought of the sea as the great place of safety, but now it came over one that there’s no place so safe from the land.  When it doesn’t confer trouble it takes trouble away—­takes away letters and telegrams and newspapers and visits and duties and efforts, all the complications, all the superfluities and superstitions that we have stuffed into our terrene life.  The simple absence of the post, when the particular conditions enable you to enjoy the great fact by which it’s produced, becomes in itself a positive bliss, and the clean boards of the deck turn to the stage of a play that amuses, the personal drama of the voyage, the movement and interaction, in the strong sea-light, of figures that end by representing something—­something moreover of which the interest is never, even in its keenness, too great to suffer you to slumber.  I at any rate dozed to excess, stretched on my rug with a French novel, and when I opened my eyes I generally saw Jasper Nettlepoint pass with the young woman confided to his mother’s care on his arm.  Somehow at these moments, between sleeping and waking, I inconsequently felt that my French novel had set them in motion.  Perhaps this was because I had fallen into the trick, at the start, of regarding Grace Mavis almost as a married woman, which, as every one knows, is the necessary status of the heroine of such a work.  Every revolution of our engine at any rate would contribute to the effect of making her one.