“Do you detest me for my cowardice?  I couldn’t blame you for never wanting to see me again.”

“You were very brave.  You were splendid,” he declared.  “I simply didn’t wish to intrude.”

“I was terribly frightened,” she confided, “but I felt that I could rely upon you.  That’s what every one does, isn’t it?  You see, you have a reputation.  They told me how you refused to be taken into the boat for fear of capsizing it.  That was fine.”

“Oh, there was nothing brave about that.  I wanted to get in badly enough, but there wasn’t, room.  Jove!  It was cold, wasn’t it?” His ready smile played whimsically about his lips, and the girl felt herself curiously drawn to him.  Since he chose to make light of himself, she determined to allow nothing of the sort.

“They have told me how you bought out this whole funny little place,” she said, “and turned it over to us.  Is it because you have such a royal way of dispensing favors that they call you ’The Irish Prince’?”

“That’s only a silly nickname.”

“I don’t think so.  You give people food and clothes with a careless wave of the hand; you give me my life with a shrug and a smile; you offer to give up your own to a boatful of strangers without a moment’s hesitation.  I—­I think you are a remarkable person.”

“You’ll turn my head with such flattery if you aren’t careful,” he said with a slight flush.  “Please talk of something sensible now, for an antidote—­your plans, for instance.”

“My plans are never sensible, and what few I have are as empty as my pockets.  To tell the truth, I have neither plans nor pockets,” she laughed, “since this is a borrowed gown.”

“Pockets in gowns are entirely matters of hearsay, anyhow; I doubt if they exist.  You are going back to Seattle?”

“Oh, I suppose so.  It seems to be my fate, but I’m not a bit resigned.  I’m one of those unfortunate people who can’t bear to be disappointed.”

“You can return on the next ship, at the company’s expense.”

“No.  Mother would never allow it.  In fact, when she learns that I’m out here she’ll probably send me back to New York as fast as I can go.”

“Doesn’t she know where you are?”

“Indeed no!  She thinks I’m safely and tamely at home.  Uncle Curtis wouldn’t object to my visit, I fancy; at any rate, I’ve been counting on his good offices with mother, but it’s too late now.”

“I’m like you,” he said; “I can’t brook disappointment.  I’m going on.”

In answer to her questioning look he explained his plan of intercepting the freight-steamer that night, whereupon her face brightened with sudden hope.

“Can’t I go, too?” she implored, eagerly.  She was no longer the haughty young lady he had met upon entering the room, but a very wistful child.

“I’m afraid that’s hardly—–­”

“Oh!  If only you knew how much it means!  If only you knew how badly I want to!  I’m not afraid of discomforts.”