They both laughed, and as they laughed, people began streaming out on deck. Dinner was over. The handsome Arab passed, talking with the spare, loose-limbed English parson, whom he had fascinated. They were discussing affairs in Morocco, and as they passed Stephen and Victoria, the Arab did not appear to turn; yet Stephen knew that he was thinking of them and not of what he was saying to the clergyman.
"What shall we do?" asked Victoria.
Stephen reflected for an instant. "Will you invite me to dine at your table?" he asked.
"Maybe they'll tell us it's too late now to have anything to eat. I don't mind for myself, but for you——"
"We'll have a better dinner than the others have had," Stephen prophesied. "I guarantee it, if you invite me."
"Oh, do please come," she implored, like a child. "I couldn't face the waiters alone. And you know, I feel as if you were a friend, now—though you may laugh at that."
"It's the best compliment I ever had," said Stephen. "And—it gives me faith in myself—which I need."
"And your star, which you're to find," the girl reminded him, as he unrolled her from her rug.
"I wish you'd lend me a little of the light from yours, to find mine by," he said half gaily, yet with a certain wistfulness which she detected under the laugh.