She did not begin at once. She had to weigh her words. She must never let him suspect that, night after night, she never went to bed until she heard him enter his cabin. What a coil! He would never know who she was! To-morrow, after landing, the gray lady would vanish forever. Only a few months gone her existence had been joyous, if strenuous; and now there would be always at her side a shadow and a fear. She had stepped upon a whirligig, and perspectives were no longer clear. The horizon of the future was dark with complications. She dreaded New York, and she was honor-bound to return. Berta in New York? The kite in the dove-cote? Escapades which would become the talk of the town and which the public would naturally lay at her door. She shivered.
Yes, to-morrow she must vanish completely, even though she would always be close at hand, all the way across the continent. The Yellow Typhoon! Her heart swelled in bitterness. He would never know. Filled with the grim business of war, he would be rushing in and about Washington or the great naval yards. He would spend his leave in activities which concerned his future. There would be only one chance in a thousand of his stumbling upon the truth and finding her. Ah, but if he should!
"I could not sleep," she began. "I left my door open and knelt on the lounge to watch the sea. I don't know how long I remained in that position. Suddenly I observed a man stealing along the rail. His face was in a complete shadow. I watched him. He stopped in front of your port-hole, then approached it. This looked so suspicious that I stepped into the companion. Your door was open the width of the hook, and I could see the port-hole clearly. I saw the glass swing inward. There was plenty of moonshine. I saw an arm reach into the port-hole and something was dangling at the end of the shadowy hand. Quickly I threw up the hook, opened your door, and turned on the lights. Saki, the steward, came running up. In a word I told him what had happened. There was a peculiar odor in the air. I caught up the cage and rushed out ... just as you appeared."
"All my life I shall be grateful. I can't explain anything to you, much as I'd like to. You will never realize what your companionship has done to buck me up. I came aboard very nearly a broken man."
"Boy, you don't have to confide." She laid a hand on his arm.
"I'm an odd duffer. They used to call me mollycoddle, back at Annapolis, until I had whipped half the class. And all the while I've been just as normal as the average man." There was a pause. "You know Kipling?"
"His books? Yes."
"Then you remember that yarn called 'Love o' Women'? My father ... he was like that. Handsome and lovable and weak in fiber. He was also in the navy. For a hundred years we Mathisons have been in the army or navy. We had money. We were soldiers and sailors from choice. My father died when I was sixteen. He died terribly. He broke my mother's heart. But I knew nothing of that until after his burial. Then one day she called me to her.... I wish you could have seen and heard her. Tender and plucky and beautiful ... and unafraid. She talked to me as fathers always should talk to their sons. Frankly and truthfully she drew life. I had the example of my father. She told me that somewhere in the world there was a mate for me. Should I take her a clean heart or a muddy one? Should I know real happiness or should I choose a bed like my father's? I listened, dulled and appalled. Then she asked me to promise to go clean. There's a point. We Mathisons always keep our promises. It is the motto on the shield. But we never give our promises hastily. My mother knew that. My father had never made her any promises of reformation. He knew he would have kept them. She told me to fight it out, then come and tell her what I had chosen to do with my soul and body."
"And you promised!"