and shoulders of her vis-a-vis, had
unconsciously forgotten the model in the man, had forgotten Edna
Derwent. The ideal, never long absent from her thought since that
morning at Hotel Frisbie, was now filling her material vision in utter
unconsciousness of her scrutiny. She leaned slightly toward him in her
absorption, and a woman's heart was in her eyes and tenderly curved
lips when John's gaze suddenly encountered hers.

The social diplomacy which from boyhood it had been his second nature
to practice stood him in good stead now.

In that instant he saw Sylvia's start and withdrawal, he felt his own
color mount to match hers, but he continued absolutely motionless
except for letting his eyelids fall again.

"Do forgive me," he said after a moment, in nasal and languid apology.
"I hadn't an idea I should fall asleep. I'll wake up in a minute. I'm
worse than a kid taken out in its baby carriage when I strike this air.
Might as well chloroform me."

Sylvia was leaning against the mast, trying to swallow the heart that
had leaped to her throat.

"Don't try to wake up," she replied after a time. She caught at his
words as consolation, yet that look had been so deliberate, so wide.
Could it be--

"My father taught me to sketch a little when I was a child," she went
on, her breath still getting between her words most inconveniently. "I
was wishing I had a pencil just then. You were being such a--such a
docile model."

"Truly?" asked Dunham, lazily opening his eyes again. "Tell me
honestly, as man to man. I prefer to know the worst. I'm sure I was all
tumbled together like Grandpa Smallweed, and I've an awful suspicion
that my mouth was open."

Sylvia shook her head.

"Honestly? Don't spare me."

He slowly pulled himself upright, and Sylvia shrank closer to the mast.
Her eyes shone like those of a startled bird who awaits only a shade
more certainty of danger to dart from the spot.

"No, no!" she exclaimed. "Were you really asleep?" she added naively.

He gave a low laugh.

"Excellent, tactful young lady. That is letting me down easy, even if I
have been giving a good imitation of a fog horn. Really, I hope you
will forgive me. There's only one way to secure my good manners on a
boat, and that is to make me sail her."

Sylvia allowed herself to be reassured by the off-hand sincerity of his
tone.

"Go to sleep as much as you like," she returned. "I told you I wanted
to think. I'm very unhappy, Mr. Dunham,