Chapter II: Part 2

“Don’t you? Well, you shall soon have a practical illustration of the terrors of a chutney fight. Steward,” called Morris, “just bring me a bottle of chutney, will you?”

“Chutney, air?” asked the steward, as if he had never heard the word before.

“Yes, chutney. Chutney sauce.”

“I am afraid, sir,” said the steward, “that we haven’t any chutney sauce.”

“Oh yes, you have. I see a bottle there on the captain’s table. I think there is a second bottle at the smaller table. Just two doors up the street. Have the kindness to bring it to me.”

The steward left for the chutney, and Morris looking after him, saw that there was some discussion between him and the steward of the other table. Finally, Morris’s steward came back and said, “I am very sorry, sir, but they are using the chutney at that table.”

“Now look here, steward,” said Morris, “you know that you are here to take care of us, and that at the end of the voyage I will take care of you. Don’t make any mistake about that. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” said the steward. “Thank you, sir.”

“All right,” replied Morris. “Now you understand that I want chutney, and chutney I am going to have.”

Steward number one waited until steward number two had disappeared after another order, and then he deftly reached over, took the chutney sauce, and placed it before Mr. Morris.

“Now, Miss Earle, I hope that you will like this chutney sauce. You see there is some difficulty in getting it, and that of itself ought to be a strong recommendation for it.”

“It is a little too hot to suit me,” answered the young lady, trying the Indian sauce, “still, there is a pleasant flavour about it that I like.”

“Oh, you are all right,” said Morris, jauntily; “you will be a victim of the chutney habit before two days. People who dislike it at first are its warmest advocates afterwards. I use the word warmest without any allusion to the sauce itself, you know. I shall now try some myself.”

As he looked round the table for the large bottle, he saw that it had been whisked away by steward number two, and now stood on the other table. Miss Earle laughed.

“Oh, I shall have it in a moment,” said the young man.

“Do you think it is worth while?”

“Worth while? Why, that is the excitement of a chutney fight. It is not that we care for chutney at all, but that we simply are bound to have it. If there were a bottle of chutney at every table, the delights of chutney would be gone. Steward,” said Morris, as that functionary appeared, “the chutney, please.”

The steward cast a rapid glance at the other table, and waited until steward number two had disappeared. Then Morris had his chutney. Steward number two, seeing his precious bottle gone, tried a second time to stealthily obtain possession of it, but Morris said to him in a pleasant voice, “That’s all right, steward, we are through with the chutney. Take it along, please. So that,” continued Mr. Morris, as Miss Earle rose from the table, “that is your first experience of a chutney fight—one of the delights of ocean travel.”

Fourth Day

Mr. George Morris began to find his “early coffees,” as he called them, very delightful. It was charming to meet a pretty and entertaining young lady every morning early when they had the deck practically to themselves. The fourth day was bright and clear, and the sea was reasonably calm. For the first time he was up earlier than Miss Earle, and he paced the deck with great impatience, waiting for her appearance. He wondered who and what she was. He had a dim, hazy idea that some time before in his life, he had met her, and probably had been acquainted with her. What an embarrassing thing it would be, he thought, if he had really known her years before, and had forgotten her, while she knew who he was, and had remembered him. He thought of how accurately she had guessed his position in life—if it was a guess. He remembered that often, when he looked at her, he felt certain he had known her and spoken to her before. He placed the two steamer chairs in position, so that Miss Earle’s chair would be ready for her when she did appear, and then, as he walked up and down the deck waiting for her, he began to wonder at himself. If any one had told him when he left New York that, within three or four days he could feel such an interest in a person who previous to that time had been an utter stranger to him, he would have laughed scornfully and bitterly at the idea. As it was, when he thought of all the peculiar circumstances of the case, he laughed aloud, but neither scornfully nor bitterly.

“You must be having very pleasant thoughts, Mr. Morris,” said Miss Earle, as she appeared with a bright shawl thrown over her shoulders, instead of the long cloak that had encased her before, and with a Tam o’ Shanter set jauntily on her black, curly hair.

“You are right,” said Morris, taking off his cap, “I was thinking of you.”

“Oh, indeed,” replied the young lady, “that’s why you laughed, was it? I may say that I do not relish being laughed at in my absence, or in my presence either, for that matter.”

“Oh, I assure you I wasn’t laughing at you. I laughed with pleasure to see you come on deck. I have been waiting for you.”

“Now, Mr. Morris, that from a man who boasts of his truthfulness is a little too much. You did not see me at all until I spoke; and if, as you say, you were thinking of me, you will have to explain that laugh.”

“I will explain it before the voyage is over, Miss Earle. I can’t explain it just now.”

“Ah, then you admit you were untruthful when you said you laughed because you saw me?”

“I may as well admit it. You seem to know things intuitively. I am not nearly as truthful a person as I thought I was until I met you. You seem the very embodiment of truth. If I had not met you, I imagine I should have gone through life thinking myself one of the most truthful men in New York.”

“Perhaps that would not be saying very much for yourself,” replied the young lady, as she took her place in the steamer chair.

“I am sorry you have such a poor opinion of us New Yorkers,” said the young man. “Why are you so late this morning?”

“I am not late; it is you who are early. This is my usual time. I have been a very punctual person all my life.”

“There you go again, speaking as if you were ever so old.”

“I am.”

“Well, I don’t believe it. I wish, however, that you had confidence enough in me to tell me something about yourself. Do you know, I was thinking this morning that I had met you before somewhere? I feel almost certain I have.”

“Well, that is quite possible, you know. You are a New Yorker, and I have lived in New York for a great number of years, much as you seem to dislike that phrase.”

“New York! Oh, that is like saying you have lived in America and I have lived in America. We might live for hundreds of years in New York and never meet one another!”

“That is very true, except that the time is a little long.”

“Then won’t you tell me something about yourself?”

“No, I will not.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, if you will tell me why you have the right to ask such a question, I shall answer why.”

“Oh, if you talk of rights, I suppose I haven’t the right. But I am willing to tell you anything about myself. Now, a fair exchange, you know—”

“But I don’t wish to know anything about you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

George Morris’s face clouded, and he sat silent for a few moments.

“I presume,” he said again, “that you think me very impertinent?”

“Well, frankly, I do.”

Morris gazed out at the sea, and Miss Earle opened the book which she had brought with her, and began to read. After a while her companion said—

“I think that you are a little too harsh with me, Miss Earle.”

The young lady placed her finger between the leaves of the book and closed it, looking up at him with a frank, calm expression in her dark eyes, but said nothing.

“You see, it’s like this. I said to you a little while since that I seem to have known you before. Now, I’ll tell you what I was thinking of when you met me this morning. I was thinking what a curious thing it would be if I had been acquainted with you some time during my past life, and had forgotten you, while you had remembered me.”

“That was very flattering to me,” said the young lady; “I don’t wonder you laughed.”

“That is why I did not wish to tell you what I had been thinking of—just for fear that you would put a wrong construction on it—as you have done. But now you can’t say anything much harsher to me than you have said, and so I tell you frankly just what I thought, and why I asked you those questions which you seem to think are so impertinent. Besides this, you know, a sea acquaintance is different from any other acquaintance. As I said, the first time I spoke to you—or the second—there is no one here to introduce us. On land, when a person is introduced to another person, he does not say, ‘Miss Earle, this is Mr. Morris, who is a younger partner in the house of So-and-so.’ He merely says, ‘Miss Earle, Mr. Morris,’ and there it is. If you want to find anything out about him you can ask your introducer or ask your friends, and you can find out. Now, on shipboard it is entirely different. Suppose, for instance, that I did not tell you who I am, and—if you will pardon me for suggesting such an absurd supposition—-imagine that you wanted to find out, how could you do it?”

Miss Earle looked at him for a moment, and then she answered—

“I would ask that blonde young lady.”

This reply was so utterly unexpected by Morris that he looked at her with wide eyes, the picture of a man dumbfounded. At that moment the smoking-room steward came up to them and said—

“Will you have your coffee now, sir?”

“Coffee!” cried Morris, as if he had never heard the word before. “Coffee!”

“Yes,” answered Miss Earle, sweetly, “we will have the coffee now, if you please. You will have a cup with me, will you not, Mr. Morris?”

“Yes, I will, if it is not too much trouble.”

“Oh, it is no trouble to me,” said, the young lady; “some trouble to the steward, but I believe even for him that it is not a trouble that cannot be recompensed.”

Morris sipped his coffee in silence. Every now and then Miss Earle stole a quiet look at him, and apparently was waiting for him to again resume the conversation. This he did not seem in a hurry to do. At last she said—

“Mr. Morris, suppose we were on shipboard and that we had become acquainted without the friendly intervention of an introducer, and suppose, if such a supposition is at all within the bounds of probability, that you wanted to find out something about me, how would you go about it?”

“How would I go about it?”

“Yes. How?”

“I would go about it in what would be the worst possible way. I would frankly ask you, and you would as frankly snub me.”

“Suppose, then, while declining to tell you anything about myself I were to refer you to somebody who would give you the information you desire, would you take the opportunity of learning?”

“I would prefer to hear from yourself anything I desired to learn.”

“Now, that is very nicely said, Mr. Morris, and you make me feel almost sorry, for having spoken to you as I did. Still, if you really want to find out something about me, I shall tell you some one whom you can ask, and who will doubtless answer you.”

“Who is that? The captain?”

“No. It is the same person to whom I should go if I wished to have information of you—the blonde young lady.”

“Do you mean to say you know her?” asked the astonished young man.

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“Well, _do_ you know her?”

“No, I do not.”

“Do you know her name?”

“No, I do not even know her name.”

“Have you ever met her before you came on board this ship?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, if that isn’t the most astonishing thing I ever heard!”

“I don’t see why it is. You say you thought you had met me before. As you are a man no doubt you have forgotten it. I say I think I have met that young lady before. As she is a woman I don’t think she will have forgotten. If you have any interest in the matter at all you might inquire.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.”

“Well, of course, I said I thought you hadn’t very much interest. I only supposed the case.”

“It is not that I have not the interest, but it is that I prefer to go to the person who can best answer my question if she chooses to do so. If she doesn’t choose to answer me, then I don’t choose to learn.”

“Now, I like that ever so much,” said the young lady; “if you will get me another cup of coffee I shall be exceedingly obliged to you. My excuse is that these cups are very small, and the coffee is very good.”

“I am sure you don’t need any excuse,” replied Morris, springing to his feet, “and I am only too happy to be your steward without the hope of the fee at the end of the voyage.”

When he returned she said, “I think we had better stop the personal conversation into which we have drifted. It isn’t at all pleasant to me, and I don’t think it is very agreeable to you. Now, I intended this morning to give you a lesson on American literature. I feel that you need enlightening on the subject, and that you have neglected your opportunities, as most New York men do, and so I thought you would be glad of a lesson or two.”

“I shall be very glad of it indeed. I don’t know what our opportunities are, but if most New York men are like me I imagine a great many of them are in the same fix. We have very little time for the study of the literature of any country.”

“And perhaps very little inclination.”

“Well, you know, Miss Earle, there is some excuse for a busy man. Don’t you think there is?”

“I don’t think there is very much. Who in America is a busier man than Mr. Gladstone? Yet he reads nearly everything, and is familiar with almost any subject you can mention.”

“Oh, Gladstone! Well, he is a man of a million. But you take the average New York man. He is worried in business, and kept on the keen jump all the year round. Then he has a vacation, say for a couple of weeks or a month, in summer, and he goes off into the woods with his fishing kit, or canoeing outfit, or his amateur photographic set, or whatever the tools of his particular fad may be. He goes to a book-store and buys up a lot of paper-covered novels. There is no use of buying an expensive book, because he would spoil it before he gets back, and he would be sure to leave it in some shanty. So he takes those paper-covered abominations, and you will find torn copies of them scattered all through the Adirondacks, and down the St. Lawrence, and everywhere else that tourists congregate. I always tell the book-store man to give me the worst lot of trash he has got, and he does. Now, what is that book you have with you?”

“This is one of Mr. Howells’ novels. You will admit, at least, that you have heard of Howells, I suppose?”

“Heard of him? Oh yes; I have read some of Howells’ books. I am not as ignorant as you seem to think.”

“What have you read of Mr. Howells’?”

“Well, I read _The American,_ I don’t remember the others.”

“_The American!_ That is by Henry James.”

“Is it? Well, I knew that it was by either Howells or James, I forgot which. They didn’t write a book together, did they?”

“Well, not that I know of. Why, the depth of your ignorance about American literature is something appalling. You talk of it so jauntily that you evidently have no idea of it yourself.”

“I wish you would take me in hand, Miss Earle. Isn’t there any sort of condensed version that a person could get hold of? Couldn’t you give me a synopsis of what is written, so that I might post myself up in literature without going to the trouble of reading the books?”

“The trouble! Oh, if that is the way you speak, then your case is hopeless! I suspected it for some time, but now I am certain. The trouble! The _delight_ of reading a new novel by Howells is something that you evidently have not the remotest idea of. Why, I don’t know what I would give to have with me a novel of Howells’ that I had not read.”

“Goodness gracious! You don’t mean to say that you have read _everything_ he has written?”

“Certainly I have, and I am reading one now that is coming out in the magazine; and I don’t know what I shall do if I am not able to get the magazine when I go to Europe.”

“Oh, you can get them over there right enough, and cheaper than you can in America. They publish them over there.”

“Do they? Well, I am glad to hear it.”

“You see, there is something about American literature that you are not acquainted with, the publication of our magazines in England, for instance. Ah, there is the breakfast gong. Well, we will have to postpone our lesson in literature until afterwards. Will you be up here after breakfast?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, we will leave our chairs and rugs just where they are. I will take your book down for you. Books have the habit of disappearing if they are left around on shipboard.”

After breakfast Mr. Morris went to the smoking-room to enjoy his cigar, and there was challenged to a game of cards. He played one game; but his mind was evidently not on his amusement, so he excused himself from any further dissipation in that line, and walked out on deck. The promise of the morning had been more than fulfilled in the day, and the warm sunlight and mild air had brought on deck many who had not been visible up to that time. There was a long row of muffled up figures on steamer chairs, and the deck steward was kept busy hurrying here and there attending to the wants of the passengers. Nearly every one had a book, but many of the books were turned face downwards on the steamer rugs, while the owners either talked to those next them, or gazed idly out at the blue ocean. In the long and narrow open space between the chairs and the bulwarks of the ship, the energetic pedestrians were walking up and down.

At this stage of the voyage most of the passengers had found congenial companions, and nearly everybody was acquainted with everybody else. Morris walked along in front of the reclining passengers, scanning each one eagerly to find the person he wanted, but she was not there. Remembering then that the chairs had been on the other side of the ship, he continued his walk around the wheel-house, and there he saw Miss Earle, and sitting beside her was the blonde young lady talking vivaciously, while Miss Earle listened.

Morris hesitated for a moment, but before he could turn back the young lady sprang to her feet, and said—“Oh, Mr. Morris, am I sitting in your chair?”

“What makes you think it is my chair?” asked that gentleman, not in the most genial tone of voice.

“I thought so,” replied the young lady, with a laugh, “because it was near Miss Earle.”

Miss Earle did not look at all pleased at this remark. She coloured slightly, and, taking the open book from her lap, began to read.

“You are quite welcome to the chair,” replied Morris, and the moment the words were spoken he felt that somehow it was one of those things he would rather have left unsaid, as far as Miss Earle was concerned. “I beg that you will not disturb yourself,” he continued; and, raising his hat to the lady, he continued his walk.

A chance acquaintance joined him, changing his step to suit that of Morris, and talked with him on the prospects of the next year being a good business season in the United States. Morris answered rather absent-mindedly, and it was nearly lunch-time before he had an opportunity of going back to see whether or not Miss Earle’s companion had left. When he reached the spot where they had been sitting he found things the very reverse of what he had hoped. Miss Earle’s chair was vacant, but her companion sat there, idly turning over the leaves of the book that Miss Earle had been reading. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Morris?” said the young woman, looking up at him with a winning smile. “Miss Earle has gone to dress for lunch. I should do the same thing, but, alas! I am too indolent.”

Morris hesitated for a moment, and then sat down beside her.

“Why do you act so perfectly horrid to me?” asked the young lady, closing the book sharply.

“I was not aware that I acted horridly to anybody,” answered Morris.

“You know well enough that you have been trying your very best to avoid me.”

“I think you are mistaken. I seldom try to avoid any one, and I see no reason why I should try to avoid you. Do you know of any reason?”

The young lady blushed and looked down at her book, whose leaves she again began to turn.

“I thought,” she said at last, “that you might have some feeling against me, and I have no doubt you judge me very harshly. You never _did_ make any allowances.”

Morris gave a little laugh that was half a sneer.

“Allowances?” he said.

“Yes, allowances. You know you always were harsh with me, George, always.” And as she looked up at him her blue eyes were filled with tears, and there was a quiver at the corner of her mouth. “What a splendid actress you would make, Blanche,” said the young man, calling her by her name for the first time.

She gave him a quick look as he did so. “Actress!” she cried. “No one was ever less an actress than I am, and you know that.”

“Oh, well, what’s the use of us talking? It’s all right. We made a little mistake, that’s all, and people often make mistakes in this life, don’t they, Blanche?”

“Yes,” sobbed that young lady, putting her dainty silk handkerchief to her eyes.

“Now, for goodness sake,” said the young man, “don’t do that. People will think I am scolding you, and certainly there is no one in this world who has less right to scold you than I have.”

“I thought,” murmured the young lady, from behind her handkerchief, “that we might at least be friends. I didn’t think you could ever act so harshly towards me as you have done for the past few days.”

“Act?” cried the young man. “Bless me, I haven’t acted one way or the other. I simply haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you till the other evening, or morning, which ever it was. I have said nothing, and done nothing. I don’t see how I could be accused of acting, or of anything else.”

“I think,” sobbed the young lady, “that you might at least have spoken kindly to me.”

“Good gracious!” cried Morris, starting up, “here comes Miss Earle. For heaven’s sake put up that handkerchief.”

But Blanche merely sank her face lower in it, while silent sobs shook her somewhat slender form.

Miss Earle stood for a moment amazed as she looked at Morris’s flushed face, and at the bowed head of the young lady beside him; then, without a word, she turned and walked away.

“I wish to goodness,” said Morris, harshly, “that if you are going to have a fit of crying you would not have it on deck, and where people can see you.”

The young woman at once straightened up and flashed a look at him in which there were no traces of her former emotion.

“People!” she said, scornfully. “Much _you_ care about people. It is because Miss Katherine Earle saw me that you are annoyed. You are afraid that it will interfere with your flirtation with her.”

“Flirtation?”

“Yes, flirtation. Surely it can’t be anything more serious?”

“Why should it not be something more serious?” asked Morris, very coldly. The blue eyes opened wide in apparent astonishment.

“Would you _marry_ her?” she said, with telling emphasis upon the word.

“Why not?” he answered. “Any man might be proud to marry a lady like Miss Earle.”

“A lady! Much of a lady she is! Why, she is one of your own shop-girls. You know it.”

“Shop-girls?” cried Morris, in astonishment.

“Yes, shop-girls. You don’t mean to say that she has concealed that fact from you, or that you didn’t know it by seeing her in the store?”

“A shop-girl in my store?” he murmured, bewildered. “I knew I had seen her somewhere.”

Blanche laughed a little irritating laugh.

“What a splendid item it would make for the society papers,” she said. “The junior partner marries one of his own shop-girls, or, worse still, the junior partner and one of his shop-girls leave New York on the _City of Buffalo_, and are married in England. I hope that the reporters will not get the particulars of the affair.” Then, rising, she left the amazed young man to his thoughts.

George Morris saw nothing more of Miss Katherine Earle that day.

“I wonder what that vixen has said to her,” he thought, as he turned in for the night.

Fifth Day

In the early morning of the fifth day out, George Morris paced the deck alone.

“Shop-girl or not,” he had said to himself, “Miss Katherine Earle is much more of a lady than the other ever was.” But as he paced the deck, and as Miss Earle did not appear, he began to wonder more and more what had been said to her in the long talk of yesterday forenoon. Meanwhile Miss Earle sat in her own state-room thinking over the same subject. Blanche had sweetly asked her for permission to sit down beside her.

“I know no ladies on board,” she said, “and I think I have met you before.”

“Yes,” answered Miss Earle, “I think we have met before.”

“How good of you to have remembered me,” said Blanche, kindly.

“I think,” replied Miss Earle, “that it is more remarkable that you should remember me than that I should remember you. Ladies very rarely notice the shop-girls who wait upon them.”

“You seemed so superior to your station,” said Blanche, “that I could not help remembering you, and could not help thinking what a pity it was you had to be there.”

“I do not think that there is anything either superior or inferior about the station. It is quite as honourable, or dishonourable, which ever it may be, as any other branch of business. I cannot see, for instance, why my station, selling ribbons at retail, should be any more dishonourable than the station of the head of the firm, who merely does on a very large scale what I was trying to do for him on a very limited scale.”

“Still,” said Blanche, with a yawn, “people do not all look upon it in exactly that light.”

“Hardly any two persons look on any one thing in the same light. I hope you have enjoyed your voyage so far?”

“I have not enjoyed it very much,” replied the young lady with a sigh.

“I am sorry to hear that. I presume your father has been ill most of the way?”

“My father?” cried the other, looking at her questioner.

“Yes, I did not see him at the table since the first day.”

“Oh, he has had to keep his room almost since we left. He is a very poor sailor.”

“Then that must make your voyage rather unpleasant?”

The blonde young lady made no reply, but, taking up the book which Miss Earle was reading, said, “You don’t find Mr. Morris much of a reader, I presume? He used not to be.”

“I know very little about Mr. Morris,” said Miss Earle, freezingly.

“Why, you knew him before you came on board, did you not?” questioned the other, raising her eyebrows.

“No, I did not.”

“You certainly know he is junior partner in the establishment where you work?”

“I know that, yes, but I had never spoken to him before I met him on board this steamer.”

“Is that possible? Might I ask you if there is any probability of your becoming interested in Mr. Morris?”

“Interested! What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know well enough what I mean. We girls do not need to be humbugs with each other, whatever we may be before the men. When a young woman meets a young man in the early morning, and has coffee with him, and when she reads to him, and tries to cultivate his literary tastes, whatever they may be, she certainly shows some interest in the young man, don’t you think so?”

Miss Earle looked for a moment indignantly at her questioner. “I do not recognise your right,” she said, “to ask me such a question.”

“No? Then let me tell you that I have every right to ask it. I assure you that I have thought over the matter deeply before I spoke. It seemed to me there was one chance in a thousand—only one chance in a thousand, remember—that you were acting honestly, and on that one chance I took the liberty of speaking to you. The right I have to ask such a question is this—Mr. George Morris has been engaged to me for several years.”

“Engaged to _you_?”

“Yes. If you don’t believe it, ask him.”

“It is the very last question in the world I would ask anybody.”

“Well, then, you will have to take my word for it. I hope you are not very shocked, Miss Earle, to hear what I have had to tell you.”

“Shocked? Oh dear, no. Why should I be? It is really a matter of no interest to me, I assure you.”

“Well, I am very glad to hear you say so. I did not know but you might have become more interested in Mr. Morris than you would care to own. I think myself that he is quite a fascinating young gentleman; but I thought it only just to you that you should know exactly how matters stood.”

“I am sure I am very much obliged to you.”

This much of the conversation Miss Earle had thought over in her own room that morning. “Did it make a difference to her or not?” that was the question she was asking herself. The information had certainly affected her opinion of Mr. Morris, and she smiled to herself rather bitterly as she thought of his claiming to be so exceedingly truthful. Miss Earle did not, however, go up on deck until the breakfast gong had rung.

“Good morning,” said Morris, as he took his place at the little table. “I was like the boy on the burning deck this morning, when all but he had fled. I was very much disappointed that you did not come up, and have your usual cup of coffee.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Miss Earle; “if I had known I was disappointing anybody I should have been here.”

“Miss Katherine,” he said, “you are a humbug. You knew very well that I would be disappointed if you did not come.”

The young lady looked up at him, and for a moment she thought of telling him that her name was Miss Earle, but for some reason she did not do so.

“I want you to promise now,” he continued, “that to-morrow morning you will be on deck as usual.”

“Has it become a usual thing, then?”

“Well, that’s what I am trying to make it,” he answered. “Will you promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Very well, then, I look on that as settled. Now, about to-day. What are you going to do with yourself after breakfast?”

“Oh, the usual thing, I suppose. I shall sit in my steamer chair and read an interesting book.”

“And what is the interesting book for to-day?”

“It is a little volume by Henry James, entitled _The Siege of London._”

“Why, I never knew that London had been besieged. When did that happen?”

“Well, I haven’t got very far in the book yet, but it seems to have happened quite recently, within a year or two, I think. It is one of the latest of Mr. James’s short stories. I have not read it yet.”

“Ah, then the siege is not historical?”

“Not historical further than Mr. James is the historian.”

“Now, Miss Earle, are you good at reading out loud?”

“No, I am not.”

“Why, how decisively you say that. I couldn’t answer like that, because I don’t know whether I am or not. I have never tried any of it. But if you will allow me, I will read that book out to you. I should like to have the good points indicated to me, and also the defects.”

“There are not likely to be many defects,” said the young lady. “Mr. James is a very correct writer. But I do not care either to read aloud or have a book read to me. Besides, we disturb the conversation or the reading of any one else who happens to sit near us. I prefer to enjoy a book by reading it myself.”

“Ah, I see you are resolved cruelly to shut me out of all participation in your enjoyment.”

“Oh, not at all. I shall be very happy to discuss the book with you afterwards. You should read it for yourself. Then, when you have done so, we might have a talk on its merits or demerits, if you think, after you have read it, that it has any.”

“Any what? merits or demerits?”

“Well, any either.”

“No; I will tell you a better plan than that. I am not going to waste my time reading it.”

“Waste, indeed!”

“Certainly waste. Not when I have a much better plan of finding out what is in the book. I am going to get you to tell me the story after you have read it.”

“Oh, indeed, and suppose I refuse?”

“Will you?”

“Well, I don’t know. I only said suppose.”

“Then I shall spend the rest of the voyage trying to persuade you.”

“I am not very easily persuaded, Mr. Morris.”

“I believe that,” said the young man. “I presume I may sit beside you while you are reading your book?”

“You certainly may, if you wish to. The deck is not mine, only that portion of it, I suppose, which I occupy with the steamer chair. I have no authority over any of the rest.”

“Now, is that a refusal or an acceptance?”

“It is which ever you choose to think.”

“Well, if it is a refusal, it is probably softening down the _No_, but if it is an acceptance it is rather an ungracious one, it seems to me.”

“Well, then, I shall be frank with you. I am very much interested in this book. I should a great deal rather read it than talk to you.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Earle. There can be no possible doubt about your meaning now.”

“Well, I am glad of that, Mr. Morris. I am always pleased to think that I can speak in such a way as not to be misunderstood.”

“I don’t see any possible way of misunderstanding that. I wish I did.”

“And then, after lunch,” said the young lady, “I think I shall finish the book before that time;—if you care to sit beside me or to walk the deck with me, I shall be very glad to tell you the story.”

“Now, that is perfectly delightful,” cried the young man. “You throw a person down into the depths, so that he will appreciate all the more being brought up into the light again.”

“Oh, not at all. I have no such dramatic ideas in speaking frankly with you. I merely mean that this forenoon I wish to have to myself, because I am interested in my book. At the end of the forenoon I shall probably be tired of my book and will prefer a talk with you. I don’t see why you should think it odd that a person should say exactly what a person means.”

“And then I suppose in the evening you will be tired of talking with me, and will want to take up your book again.”

“Possibly.”

“And if you are, you won’t hesitate a moment about saying so?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, you are a decidedly frank young lady, Miss Earle; and, after all, I don’t know but what I like that sort of thing best. I think if all the world were honest we would all have a better time of it here.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You believe in honesty, then?”

“Why, certainly. Have you seen anything in my conduct or bearing that would induce you to think that I did not believe in honesty?”

“No, I can’t say I have. Still, honesty is such a rare quality that a person naturally is surprised when one comes unexpectedly upon it.”

George Morris found the forenoon rather tedious and lonesome. He sat in the smoking room, and once or twice he ventured near where Miss Earle sat engrossed in her book, in the hope that the volume might have been put aside for the time, and that he would have some excuse for sitting down and talking with her. Once as he passed she looked up with a bright smile and nodded to him.

“Nearly through?” he asked dolefully.

“Of _The Siege of London_?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh, I am through that long ago, and have begun another story.”

“Now, that is not according to contract,” claimed Morris. “The contract was that when you got through with _The Siege of London_ you were to let me talk with you, and that you were to tell me the story.”

“That was not my interpretation of it. Our bargain, as I understood it, was that I was to have this forenoon to myself, and that I was to use the forenoon for reading. I believe my engagement with you began in the afternoon.”

“I wish it did,” said the young man, with a wistful look.

“You wish what?” she said, glancing up at him sharply.

He blushed as he bent over towards her and whispered, “That our engagement, Miss Katherine, began in the afternoon.”

The colour mounted rapidly into her cheeks, and for a moment George Morris thought he had gone too far. It seemed as if a sharp reply was ready on her lips; but, as on another occasion, she checked it and said nothing. Then she opened her book and began to read. He waited for a moment and said—

“Miss Earle, have I offended you?”

“Did you mean to give offence?” she asked.

“No, certainly, I did not.”

“Then why should you think you had offended me?”

“Well, I don’t know, I—” he stammered.

Miss Earle looked at him with such clear, innocent, and unwavering eyes that the young man felt that he could neither apologise nor make an explanation.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I am encroaching on your time.”

“Yes, I think you are: that is, if you intend to live up to your contract, and let me live up to mine. You have no idea how much more interesting this book is than you are.”

“Why, you are not a bit flattering, Miss Earle, are you?”

“No, I don’t think I am. Do you try to be?”

“I’m afraid that in my lifetime I have tried to be, but I assure you, Miss Earle, that I don’t try to be flattering, or try to be anything but what I really am when I am in your company. To tell the truth, I am too much afraid of you.”

Miss Earle smiled and went on with her reading, while Morris went once more back into the smoking-room.

“Now then,” said George Morris, when lunch was over, “which is it to be? The luxurious languor of the steamer chair or the energetic exercise of the deck? Take your choice.”

“Well,” answered the young lady, “as I have been enjoying the luxurious languor all the forenoon, I prefer the energetic exercise, if it is agreeable to you, for a while, at least.”

“It is very agreeable to me. I am all energy this afternoon. In fact, now that you have consented to allow me to talk with you, I feel as if I were imbued with a new life.”

“Dear me,” said she, “and all because of the privilege of talking to me?”

“All.”

“How nice that is. You are sure that it is not the effect of the sea air?”

“Quite certain. I had the sea air this forenoon, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten that.”

“Well, which side of the deck then?”

“Oh, which ever is the least popular side. I dislike a crowd.”

“I think, Miss Earle, that we will have this side pretty much to ourselves. The madd’ing crowd seems to have a preference for the sunny part of the ship. Now, then, for the siege of London. Who besieged it?”

“A lady.”

“Did she succeed?”

“She did.”

“Well, I am very glad to hear it, indeed. What was she besieging it for?”

“For social position, I presume.

“Then, as we say out West, I suppose she had a pretty hard row to hoe?”

“Yes, she had.”

“Well, I never can get at the story by cross-questioning. Now, supposing that you tell it to me.”

“I think that you had better take the book and read it. I am not a good story-teller.”

“Why, I thought we Americans were considered excellent story-tellers.’

“We Americans?”

“Oh, I remember now, you do not lay claim to being an American. You are English, I think you said?”

“I said nothing of the kind. I merely said I lay no claims to being an American.”

“Yes, that was it.”

“Well, you will be pleased to know that this lady in the siege of London was an American. You seem so anxious to establish a person’s nationality that I am glad to be able to tell you at the very first that she was an American, and, what is more, seemed to be a Western American.”

“Seemed? Oh, there we get into uncertainties again. If I like to know whether persons are Americans or not, it naturally follows that I am anxious to know whether they were Western or Eastern Americans. Aren’t you sure she was a Westerner?”

“The story, unfortunately, leaves that a little vague, so if it displeases you I shall be glad to stop the telling of it.”

“Oh no, don’t do that. I am quite satisfied to take her as an American citizen; whether she is East or West, or North or South, does not make the slightest difference to me. Please go on with the story.”

“Well, the other characters, I am happy to be able to say, are not at all indefinite in the matter of nationality. One is an Englishman; he is even more than that, he is an English nobleman. The other is an American. Then there is the English nobleman’s mother, who, of course, is an English woman; and the American’s sister, married to an Englishman, and she, of course, is English-American. Does that satisfy you?”

“Perfectly. Go on.”

“It seems that the besieger, the heroine of the story if you may call her so, had a past.”

“Has not everybody had a past?”

“Oh no. This past is known to the American and is unknown to the English nobleman.”

“Ah, I see; and the American is in love with her in spite of her past?”

“Not in Mr. James’s story.”

“Oh, I beg pardon. Well, go on; I shall not interrupt again.”

“It is the English nobleman who is in love with her in spite of his absence of knowledge about her past. The English nobleman’s mother is very much against the match. She tries to get the American to tell what the past of this woman is. The American refuses to do so. In fact, in Paris he has half promised the besieger not to say anything about her past. She is besieging London, and she wishes the American to remain neutral. But the nobleman’s mother at last gets the American to promise that he will tell her son what he knows of this woman’s past. The American informs the woman what he has promised the nobleman’s mother to do, and at this moment the nobleman enters the room. The besieger of London, feeling that her game is up, leaves them together. The American says to the nobleman, who stands rather stiffly before him, ‘If you wish to ask me any questions regarding the lady who has gone out I shall be happy to tell you.’ Those are not the words of the book, but they are in substance what he said. The nobleman looked at him for a moment with that hauteur which, we presume, belongs to noblemen, and said quietly, ‘I wish to know nothing.’ Now, that strikes me as a very dramatic point in the story.”

“But _didn’t_ he wish to know anything of the woman whom he was going to marry?”

“I presume that, naturally, he did.”

“And yet he did not take the opportunity of finding out when he had the chance?”

“No, he did not.”

“Well, what do you think of that?”

“What do I think of it? I think it’s a very dramatic point in the story.”

“Yes, but what do you think of his wisdom in refusing to find out what sort of a woman he was going to marry? Was he a fool or was he a very noble man?”

“Why, I thought I said at the first that he was a nobleman, an Englishman.”

“Miss Katherine, you are dodging the question. I asked your opinion of that man’s wisdom. Was he wise, or was he a fool?”

“What do you think about it? Do you think he was a fool, or a wise man?”

“Well, I asked you for your opinion first. However, I have very little hesitation in saying, that a man who marries a woman of whom he knows nothing, is a fool.”

“Oh, but he was well acquainted with this woman. It was only her past that he knew nothing about.”

“Well, I think you must admit that a woman’s past and a man’s past are very important parts of their lives. Don’t you agree with me?”

“I agree with you so seldom that I should hesitate to say I did on this occasion. But I have told the story very badly. You will have to read it for yourself to thoroughly appreciate the different situations, and then we can discuss the matter intelligently.”

“You evidently think the man was very noble in refusing to hear anything about the past of the lady he was interested in.”

“I confess I do. He was noble, at least, in refusing to let a third party tell him. If he wished any information he should have asked the lady himself.”

“Yes, but supposing she refused to answer him?”

“Then, I think he should either have declined to have anything more to do with her, or, if he kept up his acquaintance, he should have taken her just as she was, without any reference to her past.”

“I suppose you are right. Still, it is a very serious thing for two people to marry without knowing something of each other’s lives.”

“I am tired of walking,” said Miss Earle, “I am now going to seek comfort in the luxuriousness, as you call it, of my steamer chair.”

“And may I go with you?” asked the young man.

“If you also are tired of walking.”

“You know,” he said, “you promised the whole afternoon. You took the forenoon with _The Siege_, and now I don’t wish to be cheated out of my half of the day.”

“Very well, I am rather interested in another story, and if you will take _The Siege of London_, and read it, you’ll find how much better the book is than my telling of the story.”

George Morris had, of course, to content himself with this proposition, and they walked together to the steamer chairs, over which the gaily coloured rugs were spread.

“Shall I get your book for you?” asked the young man, as he picked up the rugs.

“Thank you,” answered Miss Earle, with a laugh, “you have already done so,” for, as he shook out the rugs, the two books, which were small handy volumes, fell out on the deck.

“I see you won’t accept my hint about not leaving the books around. You will lose some precious volume one of these days.”

“Oh, I fold them in the rugs, and they are all right. Now, here is your volume. Sit down there and read it.” “That means also, ‘and keep quiet,’ I suppose?”

“I don’t imagine you are versatile enough to read and talk at the same time. Are you?”

“I should be very tempted to try it this afternoon.”

Miss Earle went on with her reading, and Morris pretended to go on with his. He soon found, however, that he could not concentrate his attention on the little volume in his hand, and so quickly abandoned the attempt, and spent his time in meditation and in casting furtive glances at his fair companion over the top of his book. He thought the steamer chair a perfectly delightful invention. It was an easy, comfortable, and adjustable apparatus, that allowed a person to sit up or to recline at almost any angle. He pushed his chair back a little, so that he could watch the profile of Miss Katherine Earle, and the dark tresses that formed a frame for it, without risking the chance of having his espionage discovered.

“Aren’t you comfortable?” asked the young lady, as he shoved back his chair.

“I am very, very comfortable,” replied the young man.

“I am glad of that,” she said, as she resumed her reading.

George Morris watched her turn leaf after leaf as he reclined lazily in his chair, with half-closed eyes, and said to himself, “Shop-girl or not, past or not, I’m going to propose to that young lady the first good opportunity I get. I wonder what she will say?”

“How do you like it?” cried the young lady he was thinking of, with a suddenness that made Morris jump in his chair.

“Like it?” he cried; “oh, I like it immensely.”

“How far have you got?” she continued.

“How far? Oh, a great distance. Very much further than I would have thought it possible when I began this voyage.”

Miss Earle turned and looked at him with wide-open eyes, as he made this strange reply.

“What are you speaking of?” she said.

“Oh, of everything—of the book, of the voyage, of the day.”

“I was speaking of the book,” she replied quietly. “Are you sure you have not fallen asleep and been dreaming?”

“Fallen asleep? No. Dreaming? Yes.”

“Well, I hope your dreams have been pleasant ones.”

“They have.”

Miss Earle, who seemed to think it best not to follow her investigations any further, turned once more to her own book, and read it until it was time to dress for dinner. When that important meal was over, Morris said to Miss Earle: “Do you know you still owe me part of the day?”

“I thought you said you had a very pleasant afternoon.”