“Tired of me, I’m afraid.”

“No, not yet.”

“I’m like you,” I confessed.  “I should like it to go on and on.”

She had begun to walk along the deck to the companionway and I went with her.  “Well, I guess I wouldn’t, after all!”

I had taken her shawl from her to carry it, but at the top of the steps that led down to the cabins I had to give it back.  “Your mother would be glad if she could know,” I observed as we parted.

But she was proof against my graces.  “If she could know what?”

“How well you’re getting on.”  I refused to be discouraged.  “And that good Mrs. Allen.”

“Oh mother, mother!  She made me come, she pushed me off.”  And almost as if not to say more she went quickly below.

I paid Mrs. Nettlepoint a morning visit after luncheon and another in the evening, before she “turned in.”  That same day, in the evening, she said to me suddenly:  “Do you know what I’ve done?  I’ve asked Jasper.”

“Asked him what?”

“Why, if she asked him, you understand.”

I wondered. “Do I understand?”

“If you don’t it’s because you ‘regular’ won’t, as she says.  If that girl really asked him—­on the balcony—­to sail with us.”

“My dear lady, do you suppose that if she did he’d tell you?”

She had to recognise my acuteness.  “That’s just what he says.  But he says she didn’t.”

“And do you consider the statement valuable?” I asked, laughing out.  “You had better ask your young friend herself.”

Mrs. Nettlepoint stared.  “I couldn’t do that.”

On which I was the more amused that I had to explain I was only amused.  “What does it signify now?”

“I thought you thought everything signified.  You were so full,” she cried, “of signification!”

“Yes, but we’re further out now, and somehow in mid-ocean everything becomes absolute.”

“What else can he do with decency?” Mrs. Nettlepoint went on.  “If, as my son, he were never to speak to her it would be very rude and you’d think that stranger still.  Then you would do what he does, and where would be the difference?”

“How do you know what he does?  I haven’t mentioned him for twenty-four hours.”

“Why, she told me herself.  She came in this afternoon.”

“What an odd thing to tell you!” I commented.

“Not as she says it.  She says he’s full of attention, perfectly devoted—­looks after her all the time.  She seems to want me to know it, so that I may approve him for it.”

“That’s charming; it shows her good conscience.”

“Yes, or her great cleverness.”

Something in the tone in which Mrs. Nettlepoint said this caused me to return in real surprise:  “Why what do you suppose she has in her mind?”

“To get hold of him, to make him go so far he can’t retreat.  To marry him perhaps.”