Fourth Day
Mr. George Morris began to find his “early coffees,” as he called them, very delightful. It was charming to meet a pretty and entertaining young lady every morning early when they had the deck practically to themselves. The fourth day was bright and clear, and the sea was reasonably calm. For the first time he was up earlier than Miss Earle, and he paced the deck with great impatience, waiting for her appearance. He wondered who and what she was. He had a dim, hazy idea that some time before in his life, he had met her, and probably had been acquainted with her. What an embarrassing thing it would be, he thought, if he had really known her years before, and had forgotten her, while she knew who he was, and had remembered him. He thought of how accurately she had guessed his position in life—if it was a guess. He remembered that often, when he looked at her, he felt certain he had known her and spoken to her before. He placed the two steamer chairs in position, so that Miss Earle’s chair would be ready for her when she did appear, and then, as he walked up and down the deck waiting for her, he began to wonder at himself. If any one had told him when he left New York that, within three or four days he could feel such an interest in a person who previous to that time had been an utter stranger to him, he would have laughed scornfully and bitterly at the idea. As it was, when he thought of all the peculiar circumstances of the case, he laughed aloud, but neither scornfully nor bitterly.
“You must be having very pleasant thoughts, Mr. Morris,” said Miss Earle, as she appeared with a bright shawl thrown over her shoulders, instead of the long cloak that had encased her before, and with a Tam o’ Shanter set jauntily on her black, curly hair.
“You are right,” said Morris, taking off his cap, “I was thinking of you.”
“Oh, indeed,” replied the young lady, “that’s why you laughed, was it? I may say that I do not relish being laughed at in my absence, or in my presence either, for that matter.”
“Oh, I assure you I wasn’t laughing at you. I laughed with pleasure to see you come on deck. I have been waiting for you.”
“Now, Mr. Morris, that from a man who boasts of his truthfulness is a little too much. You did not see me at all until I spoke; and if, as you say, you were thinking of me, you will have to explain that laugh.”
“I will explain it before the voyage is over, Miss Earle. I can’t explain it just now.”
“Ah, then you admit you were untruthful when you said you laughed because you saw me?”
“I may as well admit it. You seem to know things intuitively. I am not nearly as truthful a person as I thought I was until I met you. You seem the very embodiment of truth. If I had not met you, I imagine I should have gone through life thinking myself one of the most truthful men in New York.”