I was surprised and just a little vexed at his way of talking.  Why, even with the underlying flattery of his words, should he call me a dreamer?  I had worked for my own living as practically as himself in the world, and if not with such financially successful results, only because my aims had never been mere money-spinning.  He had attained enormous wealth,—­I a modest competence,—­he was old and I was young,—­he was ill and miserable,—­I was well and happy,—­which of us was the ‘dreamer’?  My thoughts were busy with this question, and he saw it.

“Don’t perplex yourself,”—­he said,—­“and don’t be offended with me for my frankness.  My view of life is not yours,—­nor are we ever likely to see things from the same standpoint.  Yours is the more enviable condition.  You are looking well,—­you feel well—­you are well!  Health is the best of all things.”  He paused, and lifting his eyes from the contemplation of the water, regarded me fixedly.  “That’s a lovely bit of bell-heather you’re wearing!  It glows like fiery topaz.”

I explained how it had been given to me.

“Why, then, you’ve already established a connection with the strange yacht!” he said, laughing—­“The owner, according to your Highland fellow, has the same blossoms on board,—­probably gathered from the same morass!—­surely this is quite romantic and exciting!”

And at breakfast, when Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton appeared, they all made conversation on the subject of my bunch of heather, till I got rather tired of it, and was half inclined to take it off and throw it away.  Yet somehow I could not do this.  Glancing at my own reflection in a mirror, I saw what a brilliant yet dainty touch of colour it gave to the plain white serge of my yachting dress,—­it was a pretty contrast, and I left it alone.

Miss Catherine did not get up to breakfast, but she sent for me afterwards and asked if I would mind sitting with her for a while.  I did mind in a way,—­for the day was fair and fine,—­the ‘Diana’ was preparing to pursue her course,—­and it was far pleasanter to be on deck in the fresh air than in Miss Catherine’s state-room, which, though quite spacious for a yacht’s accommodation, looked rather dreary, having no carpet on the floor, no curtains to the bed, and no little graces of adornment anywhere,—­nothing but a few shelves against the wall on which were ranged some blue and black medicine bottles, relieved by a small array of pill-boxes.  But I felt sorry for the poor woman who had elected to make her life a martyrdom to nerves, and real or imaginary aches and pains, so I went to her, determined to do what I could to cheer and rouse her from her condition of chronic depression.  Directly I entered her cabin she said: 

“Where did you get that bright bit of heather?”

I told her the whole story, to which she listened with more patience than she usually showed for any talk in which she had not first share.