“I suppose,” she said, “that that was one of the officers of the ship, though he was very young—­quite a boy.  He was telling me about his mother.  It must be terrible to have a near relation a sailor.”

She spoke in a gentle voice, and it was evident that she had a heart full of sympathy for the suffering and the poor.

“I wish some of my relations were sailors,” replied Mr. Mangles, in his deepest tones.  “Could spare a whole crew.  Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Cartoner—­Miss Cahere.”

He completed the introduction with an old-fashioned and ceremonious wave of the hand.  Miss Cahere smiled rather shyly on Cartoner, and it was his eyes that turned away first.

“You have not been down to meals,” he said, in his gentle, abrupt way.

“No; but I hope to come now.  Are there many people?  Have you friends on board?”

“There are very few ladies.  I know none of them.”

“But I dare say some of them are nice,” said Miss Cahere, who evidently thought well of human nature.

“Very likely.”

And Cartoner lapsed into his odd and somewhat disconcerting thoughtfulness.

Miss Cahere continued to glance at him beneath her dark lashes—­dark lashes around blue eyes—­with a guileless and wondering admiration.  He certainly was a very good-looking man, well set up, with that quiet air which bespeaks good breeding.

“Have you seen the ship on the other side?” she asked, after a pause; “a sailing ship.  You cannot see it from here.”

As she spoke she made a little movement, as if to show him the spot from whence the ship was visible.  Cartoner followed her meekly, and Mr. Mangles, left behind in his deck-chair, slowly sought his cigar-case.

“There,” said Miss Cahere, pointing out a sail on the distant horizon.  “One can hardly see it now.  When I first came on deck it was much nearer.  That ship’s officer pointed it out to me.”

Cartoner looked at the ship without much enthusiasm.

“I think,” said Miss Cahere, in a lower voice—­she had a rather confidential manner—­“I think sailors are very nice, don’t you?  But . . . well, I suppose one ought not to say that, ought one?”

“It depends what you were going to say.”

Miss Cahere laughed, and made no reply.  Her laugh and a glance seemed, however, to convey the comfortable assurance that whatever she had been about to say would not have been applicable to Cartoner himself.  She glanced at his trim, upright figure.

“I think I prefer soldiers,” she said, thoughtfully.

Cartoner murmured something inaudible, and continued to gaze at the ship he had been told to look at.

“Did you know my uncle before you came on board, or were you brave enough to force him to speak?  He is so silent, you know, that most people are afraid of him.  I suppose you had met him before.”

“No.  It was a mere accident.  We were neither of us ill.  We were both hungry, and hurried down to a meal.  And the stewards placed us next to each other.”