She thought of that happy moment this afternoon, with a little chill at her heart.  For there was no doubt that Jim had blue devils now.  When she came back to her stateroom at six o’clock, he was already there, flung across the bed, his arms locked under his head, his sombre eyes on the ceiling, where green water-lights were playing.

“Jim, don’t you feel well, dear?”

“Perfectly well, thank you!” Jim said coldly.

Slightly angered by his tone, Julia fell silent, busied herself with her brushes, hooked on a gown of demure cherry colour and gray, caught up a great silky scarf.

“Anything I can do for you, Jim?” she said then, politely.

“Just—­let me alone!” Jim answered, without stirring.

Hurt to the quick, and with sudden colour in her face, Julia left the room.  She held her head high, but she felt almost a little sick with the shock.  Five minutes later she was the centre of a chattering group on the deck.  A milky twilight held the sea, the skyline was no longer to be discerned in the opal spaces all about them, the ship moved over a vast plain of pearl-coloured smooth waters.  Where staterooms were lighted, long fingers of rosy brightness fell across the deck; here and there in the shelter of a bit of wall were dark blots that were passengers, wrapped and reclining, and unrecognizable in the gloom.

Julia and a young man named Manners began to pace the deck.  Mr. Manners was a poet, and absorbed in the fascinating study of his own personality, but he served Julia’s need just now, and never noticed her abstraction and indifference.  He described to Julia the birth of his own soul, when he was what the world considered only a clumsy, unthinking lad of seventeen, and Julia listened as a pain-racked fever patient might listen with vague distress to the noise of distant hammers.

Presently they were all at dinner; soup, but no Jim; fish, but no Jim.  Here was Jim at last, pale, freshly shaven, slipping into his place with a muttered apology and averted eyes.  With a sense of impending calamity upon her, Julia struggled through her dinner; after a while she found herself holding cards, under a bright light; after a while again, she reached her stateroom.

Julia turned up the light.  The room was close and empty, littered with the evidences of Jim’s hasty toilet.  She opened a window, and the sweet salt air filtered in, infinitely soothing and refreshing.  She began to go about the room, picking up Jim’s clothes, and putting the place in order.  Once or twice her face twitched with pain, and once she stopped and pressed Jim’s coat to her heart with both hands, as if to stop a wound, but she did not cry, and presently began her usual preparations for bed in her usual careful fashion.  The cherry-coloured gown had been put away, and Julia, in an embroidered white kimono almost stiff enough to stand alone, was putting her rings into their little cases when Jim came in.  She looked at him over her shoulder.