t dinner, refreshed with my long rest, I feel unusually light-hearted and gay. I laugh and chat with Señor Noma and the rough old Captain, till Mrs. Steele leans over and gives me a look of surprise. Not once do the eyes of the Peruvian turn in my direction, and he leaves the table before dessert. He is not visible on deck when we go up later and, after talking a while to the others, I start off on a tour of discovery.
Down at the further end of the steamer, to windward of the smokestack, stands the Baron in a depressed attitude smoking a pipe and looking out to sea.
"Oh, you're here!" I call out in friendly fashion. "I've been looking for you. I'm sorry if I was rude about the reading"—I look as meek and penitent as I know how.
The Baron takes out his pipe and walks to the vessel's side, where he knocks out the ashes.
"Well!" I insist, "I've said I'm sorry, and in English the proper reply to that is 'I forgive you.'"
A curious, lingering look out of those dark eyes of his.
"I forgif you," he says, as a child repeats a lesson.
"And we must be friends again, nicht wahr?" I hold out my hand.
"No, Señorita." He takes the hand, but shakes his head.
"No!" I echo; "why not?"