"You have the same opportunities. It's not our fault if you don't profit by them."
"You tell me yourself," he goes on, unheeding, "you haf many gude friends among your fadther's and brodthers' acquaintances; dthat make you care so leedle for men."
"Not a bit of it!" I laugh. "On the contrary, it has so accustomed me to their friendship I would find life utterly unendurable without it."
"I vill make you fery angry pairhaps, but I have deescovair you like me leedle more dthan a friend."
"I suppose it is often flattering to a man's vanity to have a fancy like that," I say coolly, but I am conscious of a twinge; what if I do like him more than I want to think?
"It ees not fancy, Señorita; you do not know yourself you care, but you do."
"Nonsense; I know all about it. I'm not a sentimental person and I don't mind telling you in plain English I like you. I must like you rather more than usual, or I wouldn't see so much of you." By this time we are away from the rest of the passengers, down by the smokestack. "I feel as if I'd known you for years!" I end with a sense of having turned the tide of sentiment by a little frank speaking, and feel rather proud of myself.
"Señorita," he clasps his hand over mine and speaks hurriedly, "I know you loaf me; tell me so."
Oddly enough, I feel no indignation, but I open my lips for a denial.
"If you tell me not," he says excitedly, laying one hand on the rail and looking greatly wrought-up, tragic and comical all at once, "if you tell me not," he repeats, raising his voice, "I yump in dthe vater."