“I can't help that.”
“No. Of course.” He smoked. Suddenly he broke out, with a gesture so vehement that it startled her: “Oh, it's plain enough—we're on a ship, idling, dreaming, floating from a land of color and charm and quaint unreality to another land that has always enchanted me, for all the dirt and disease, and the smells. It's that! Romance! The old web! It's catching us. And we're not even resisting. No one could blame you—you're young, charming, as full of natural life as a young flower in the morning. But I... I'm not romantic. To-night, yes! But next Friday, in Shanghai, no!”
Betty turned away to hide a smile.
“You think I'm brutal? Well—I am.”
“No, you're not brutal.”
“Yes, I am.... But my God! You in T'ainanfu! Child, it's wrong!”
“It is simply a thing I can't help,” said she.
They fell silent. The pulse of the great dim ship was soothing. One bell sounded. Two bells. Three.
3
A man of Jonathan Brachey's nature couldn't know the power his nervous bold thoughts and words were bound to exert in the mind of a girl like Betty. In her heart already she was mothering him. Every word he spoke now, even the strong words that startled her, she enveloped in warm sentiment.