the wavy
dark hair was clipped as closely as the hair of any other male biped
and had greyed a trifle just at the temples. He was less like a
novelist's creation, and more like the men Arethusa had known in the
flesh, in his appearance, certainly. For this older Ross Worthington
had discarded Italian military capes and Byronic collars and flowing
ties for more conventional attire. He was as commonplace and ordinary
as to clothing, in every respect, as any other man on that huge
steamship.

But Elinor Worthington would have attracted attention almost anywhere,
and more than one of the pedestrians had given her a second glance of
surreptitious admiration as they passed her. She was rather a wonderful
looking person. Ross's raptures had not been altogether exaggeration.
She had a world of soft white hair, pure white it was, worn simply
coiled around a beautifully shaped head; its elderly color in strange
and attractive contrast to the smooth youthfulness of her lovely skin.
Her eyes were brown, a warm, dark brown, under long dark lashes and
slightly arched dark eyebrows; and the tiny gleam of unmistakable fun
that lurked in their quiet depths was again a contrast to the almost
classical severity of finely cut features, straight nose, and
delicately chiseled mouth, and cleanly rounded chin. And she was as
graceful in her slender tallness as the girl she had admired--this
woman of forty or more. It was small wonder that Ross had declared he
loved to look at her.

Here in this corner with her husband, Elinor Worthington was all
herself. She glowed like a rose, with none of the little stiffness in
her manner she so often unfortunately showed to strangers and which
only the discerning few correctly named as shyness. To the majority of
people she was likely to seem cold, almost distant.

"What are you thinking about? You look so serious and far away," Ross
remarked after an interval of silence.

He believed in the power of the spoken word. It was not given him to
remain quiet for long. He might have managed it with the communion of a
hand-clasp; but without, it was impossible.

Just then the pretty girl and her escort passed by them again. Elinor's
brown eyes watched the pair this second time until they had turned the
corner of the deck.

"That girl," she said, half wistfully, "she is so delicious and young.
I can't help wishing she were mine. There is something too utterly
adorable about a young girl."

"She seems mer