Fannie Morton found him in his favorite seat—back against a small alcove, his small, daintily manicured fingers resting on the back of a chair in front of him.
She pulled a chair along the deck, and sat down beside him.
"You are selfish, Mr. Takashima," she said, "to enjoy the sunset all alone."
"Will you not enjoy it also?" he asked, quite gravely. "I like much better, though," he continued, seeing that she had come up more to talk than to enjoy the sunset, "to look at the skies and the water rather than to talk. It is most strange, but one does not care to talk as much at sea as on land when the evenings advance."
"And yet," Miss Morton said, "I have often heard Miss Ballard's voice conversing with you in the evening."
The Japanese was silent a moment. Then he said, very simply and honestly, "Ah, yes, but I would rather hear her voice than all else on earth. She is different to me."
The girl reddened a trifle impatiently.
"Most men love flirts," she said, sharply.
The Japanese smiled quietly, confidently.