it was a stranger who was talking did not seem to disturb
her. I cannot tell how she conveyed the idea, but I soon felt that she
felt, no matter what unconventional thing she chose to do, people would
not be rude, or misunderstand.

I considered telling her my name. At first it seemed that that would be
more polite. Then I saw to do so would be forcing myself upon her, that
she was interested in me only as a guide to New York Harbor.

When we passed the Brooklyn Navy Yard I talked so much and so eagerly of
the battle-ships at anchor there that the lady must have thought I had
followed the sea, for she asked: "Are you a sailorman?"

It was the first question that was in any way personal.

"I used to sail a catboat," I said.

My answer seemed to puzzle her, and she frowned. Then she laughed
delightedly, like one having made a discovery.

"You don't say 'sailorman,'" she said. "What do you ask, over here, when
you want to know if a man is in the navy?"

She spoke as though we were talking a different language.

"We ask if he is in the navy," I answered.

She laughed again at that, quite as though I had said something clever.

"And you are not?"

"No," I said, "I am in Joyce & Carboy's office. I am a stenographer."

Again my answer seemed both to puzzle and to surprise her. She regarded
me doubtfully. I could see that she thought, for some reason, I was
misleading her.

"In an office?" she repeated. Then, as though she had caught me, she
said: "How do you keep so fit?" She asked the question directly, as a
man would have asked it, and as she spoke I was conscious that her eyes
were measuring me and my shoulders, as though she were wondering to what
weight I could strip.

"It's only lately I've worked in an office," I said. "Before that I
always worked out-of-doors; oystering and clamming and, in the fall,
scalloping. And in the summer I played ball on a hotel nine."

I saw that to the beautiful lady my explanation carried no meaning
whatsoever, but before I could explain, the young man with whom she had
come on board walked toward us.

Neither did he appear to find in her talking to a stranger anything
embarrassing. He halted and smiled. His smile was pleasant, but entirely
vague. In the few minutes I was with him, I learned that it was no sign
that he was secretly pleased. It was merely his expression. It was as
though a photographer had said: "Smile, please," and he had smiled.

When he joined us, out