The next night Staniford found her alone in the waist of the ship, and drew up a stool beside the rail where she sat.
“We all enjoyed your singing so much, last night, Miss Blood. I think Mr. Hicks plays charmingly, but I believe I prefer to hear your voice alone.”
“Thank you,” said Lydia, looking down, demurely.
“It must be a great satisfaction to feel that you can give so much pleasure.”
“I don't know,” she said, passing the palm of one hand over the back of the other.
“When you are a prima donna you mustn't forget your old friends of the Aroostook. We shall all take vast pride in you.”
It was not a question, and Lydia answered nothing. Staniford, who had rather obliged himself to this advance, with some dim purpose of showing that nothing had occurred to alienate them since the evening, of their promenade, without having proved to himself that it was necessary to do this, felt that he was growing angry. It irritated him to have her sit as unmoved after his words as if he had not spoken.
“Miss Blood,” he said, “I envy you your gift of snubbing people.”
Lydia looked at him. “Snubbing people?” she echoed.
“Yes; your power of remaining silent when you wish to put down some one who has been wittingly or unwittingly impertinent.”