Peter smiled his grave smile, and vouchsafed nothing. The girl in the steerage had returned to her sewing and was apparently quite oblivious of his presence. And still that look of demure, wistful appeal stood out in his memory.
Romola Borria was murmuring something, the context of which was not quite clear to him.
"Eh? I beg pardon?"
"It is quite dreadful, this traveling all alone," she remarked.
"Yes," he admitted. "Sometimes I bore myself into a state of agony."
"And it breeds such strange, such unexplainable desires and caprices," the girl went on in her cultivated, honeyed tones. "Strangers sometimes are so—so cold. For instance, yourself."
"I?" exclaimed Peter, supporting himself on the stanchion. "Why, I'm the friendliest man in the world!"
Romola Borria pursed her lips and studied him analytically.
"I wonder——" she began, and stopped, fretting her lip. "I should like to ask you a very blunt and a very bold question." Her expression was darkly puzzled.
"Go right ahead," urged Peter amiably, "don't mind me."