"Now you are sneering again. I will not talk any more."
He recognized in her tone a quick sensitiveness—not temper. Accordingly his own took on an unconscious softness, a phenomenally unwonted softness.
"Don't be foolish, child. You know I was doing nothing of the sort. Go on with what you were saying at once."
"What was I saying? Oh, I remember. That idea that board-ship life shows people in their real character. Do you believe in it?"
"Only in the case of those who have no real character to show. Wherein is a paradox. Those who have got any—well, don't show it, either on board ship or on shore."
"I believe you are right. Now, my own character, do you think it shows out more readable on board than it would on shore."
"Do you think you have me so transparently as that? What was I saying just now on that head?"
"I see. Really, though, I had no ulterior motive. I asked the question in perfect good faith. Tell me—if anyone can, you can. Tell me. Shall I make a success—a good thing of life? I often wonder."
She threw up her head with a quick movement, and the wide, serious eyes, fixed full upon his, seemed to flash in the starlight. He met the glance with one as earnest and unswerving as her own.
"You rate my powers of vaticination too high," he said slowly, "and—you are groping after an ideal."