Which was a long explanation, without much information in it.

“Oh, I thought perhaps you were in the diplomatic service,” said Miss Cahere, carelessly.

For an instant Cartoner’s eyes lost all their vagueness.  Either Miss Cahere had hit the mark with her second shot, or else he was making a mental note of the fact that Mr. Mangles belonged to that amiable body of amateurs, the American Diplomatic Corps.

Mr. Mangles had naturally selected the leeward side of the deck-house for his seat, and Miss Cahere had brought Cartoner round to the weather side, where a cold Atlantic breeze made the position untenable.  Without explanation, and for her own good, he led the way to a warmer quarter.  But at the corner of the deck-house a gust caught Miss Cahere, and held her there in a pretty attitude, with her two hands upraised to her hat, looking at him with frank and laughing eyes, and waiting for him to come to her assistance.  The same gust of wind made the steamer lurch so that Cartoner had to grasp Miss Cahere’s arm to save her from falling.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly, and with downcast eyes, when the incident had passed.  For in some matters she held old-fashioned notions, and was not one of the modern race of hail-fellow-well-met girls who are friendly in five minutes with men and women alike.

When she came within sight of her uncle, she suddenly hurried towards him, and made an affectionate, laughing attempt to prevent his returning his cigar-case to his jacket pocket.  She even took possession of the cigar-case, opened it, and with her own fingers selected a cigar.

“No,” she said, firmly, “you are going to smoke again at once.  Do you think I did not see you throw away the other?  Mr. Cartoner—­is it not foolish of him?  Because I once said, without reflecting, that I did not care about the smell of tobacco, he never lets me see him smoke now.”

As she spoke she laid her hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder and looked down at him.

“As if it mattered whether I like it or not,” she said.  “And I do like it—­I like the smell of your cigars.”

Mr. Mangles looked from Cartoner to his niece with an odd smile, which was perhaps the only way in which that lean countenance could express tenderness.

“As if it mattered what I think,” she said, humbly, again.

“Always like to conciliate a lady,” said Mr. Mangles, in his deep voice.

“Especially when that lady is dependent on you for her daily bread and her frocks,” answered Netty, in an affectionate aside, which Cartoner was, nevertheless, able to overhear.

“Where is your aunt Jooly?” inquired the old man, hurriedly.  “I thought she was coming on deck.”

“So she is,” answered Netty.  “I left her in the saloon.  She is quite well.  She was talking to some people.”

“What, already?” exclaimed the lady’s brother.  And Netty nodded her head with a mystic gravity.  She was looking towards the saloon stairway, from whence she seemed to expect Miss Mangles.