"No, Tom—it is not he. It is mother."
Tom stopped in his walk, and made a half-impatient exclamation.
"Oh, Tom, I do want to love her so much—but—but she won't let me. I mean—she is fond of me, and—and—proud, I suppose, but whenever I try to get close to her she repulses me in some way. We ought to be a comfort to each other, but—but there is scarcely any feeling between us." She caught her breath. "Tom, I don't know what's the matter with me to-night. I—I—Oh, Tom, I do want a little sympathy so much."
The young man threw his lighted cigar away. He did not answer Cleo, but he drew her little hand closer through his arm. After a time the girl quieted down, and her voice had lost its restlessness when she said: "Dear Tom—you are so good."
They strolled slowly back in the moonlight to where Takashima was sitting. He was leaning over the railing, watching the dark waves beneath in their silvery, shimmering splendor, touched by the moon's rays. He turned as Tom called out to him:
"See a—a whale, Takie?"
"No; I was merely watching the—the night."
Cleo raised her head and smiled at Tom, both of them enjoying the Japanese's naive way of answering.
"I was watching the night," he repeated, "and thinking of Miss Cleo. We generally enjoy such sights together."
"Well, to-night I thought I had a lien on her for a change," Tom said. "Cleo is too popular to be monopolized by one person, you know."