“Exactly, and that’s what startled me.  She came in to see me this afternoon, as she has done before, and we talked of the weather and the run of the ship and the manners of the stewardess and other such trifles, and then suddenly, in the midst of it, as she sat there, on no visible pretext, she burst into tears.  I asked her what ailed her and tried to comfort her, but she didn’t explain; she said it was nothing, the effect of the sea, of the monotony, of the excitement, of leaving home.  I asked her if it had anything to do with her prospects, with her marriage; whether she finds as this draws near that her heart isn’t in it.  I told her she mustn’t be nervous, that I could enter into that—­in short I said what I could.  All she replied was that she is nervous, very nervous, but that it was already over; and then she jumped up and kissed me and went away.  Does she look as if she has been crying?” Mrs. Nettlepoint wound up.

“How can I tell, when she never quits that horrid veil?  It’s as if she were ashamed to show her face.”

“She’s keeping it for Liverpool.  But I don’t like such incidents,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint.  “I think I ought to go above.”

“And is that where you want me to help you?”

“Oh with your arm and that sort of thing, yes.  But I may have to look to you for something more.  I feel as if something were going to happen.”

“That’s exactly what I said to Jasper this morning.”

“And what did he say?”

“He only looked innocent—­as if he thought I meant a fog or a storm.”

“Heaven forbid—­it isn’t that!  I shall never be good-natured again,” Mrs. Nettlepoint went on; “never have a girl put on me that way.  You always pay for it—­there are always tiresome complications.  What I’m afraid of is after we get there.  She’ll throw up her engagement; there will be dreadful scenes; I shall be mixed up with them and have to look after her and keep her with me.  I shall have to stay there with her till she can be sent back, or even take her up to London.  Do you see all that?”

I listened respectfully; after which I observed:  “You’re afraid of your son.”

She also had a pause.  “It depends on how you mean it.”

“There are things you might say to him—­and with your manner; because you have one, you know, when you choose.”

“Very likely, but what’s my manner to his?  Besides, I have said everything to him.  That is I’ve said the great thing—­that he’s making her immensely talked about.”

“And of course in answer to that he has asked you how you know, and you’ve told him you have it from me.”

“I’ve had to tell him; and he says it’s none of your business.”

“I wish he’d say that,” I remarked, “to my face.”

“He’ll do so perfectly if you give him a chance.  That’s where you can help me.  Quarrel with him—­he’s rather good at a quarrel; and that will divert him and draw him off.”