“Oh yes, he has come in several times. He seems very much pleased. He has got a cabin to himself.”
“That’s great luck,” I said, “but I’ve an idea he’s always in luck. I was sure I should have to offer him the second berth in my room.”
“And you wouldn’t have enjoyed that, because you don’t like him,” she took upon herself to say.
“What put that into your head?”
“It isn’t in my head—it’s in my heart, my cœur de mère. We guess those things. You think he’s selfish. I could see it last night.”
“Dear lady,” I contrived promptly enough to reply, “I’ve no general ideas about him at all. He’s just one of the phenomena I am going to observe. He seems to me a very fine young man. However,” I added, “since you’ve mentioned last night I’ll admit that I thought he rather tantalised you. He played with your suspense.”
“Why he came at the last just to please me,” said Mrs. Nettlepoint.
I was silent a little. “Are you sure it was for your sake?”
“Ah, perhaps it was for yours!”
I bore up, however, against this thrust, characteristic of perfidious woman when you presume to side with her against a fond tormentor. “When he went out on the balcony with that girl,” I found assurance to suggest, “perhaps she asked him to come for hers.”