that something
of the same sort in himself touched her; it was enough for those days
that he was courteous and amusing, and gained a trifle in her eyes from
the fact that he had no tangible background.

Then came the evening of the fifth day. They were taking a turn after
dinner on the lighted deck. The spring stars hung faint and far through
thin clouds and the wind was keen from the sea. A few passengers were
out; the deck stewards went about gathering up rugs and chairs for the
night.

"Time oughtn't to be reckoned at all at sea, so that people who feel
themselves getting old might sail forth into the deep and defy the old
man with the hour-glass."

"I like the idea. Such people could become fishers--permanently,
and grow very wise from so much brain food."

"They wouldn't eat, Mr. Armitage. Brain-food forsooth! You talk like a
breakfast-food advertisement. My idea--mine, please note--is for such
fortunate people to sail in pretty little boats with orange-tinted sails
and pick up lost dreams. I got a hint of that in a pretty poem once--

"'Time seemed to pause a little pace,
I heard a dream go by.'"

"But out here in mid-ocean a little boat with lateen sails wouldn't have
much show. And dreams passing over--the idea is pretty, and is creditable
to your imagination. But I thought your fancy was more militant. Now, for
example, you like battle pictures--" he said, and paused inquiringly.

She looked at him quickly.

"How do you know I do?"

"You like Detaille particularly."

"Am I to defend my taste?--what's the answer, if you don't mind?"

"Detaille is much to my liking, also; but I prefer Flameng, as a strictly
personal matter. That was a wonderful collection of military and battle
pictures shown in Paris last winter."

She half withdrew her hand from his arm, and turned away. The sea winds
did not wholly account for the sudden color in her cheeks. She had seen
Armitage in Paris--in cafes, at the opera, but not at the great
exhibition of world-famous battle pictures; yet undoubtedly he had seen
her; and she remembered with instant consciousness the hours of
absorption she had spent before those canvases.

"It was a public exhibition, I believe; there was no great harm in seeing
it."

"No; there certainly was not!" He laughed, then was serious at once.
Shirley's tense, arrested figure, her bright, eager eyes, her parted
lips, as he saw her before the battle pictures in the gallery at Paris,
came