It had happened, therefore, that since the men had asked her no
questions, she had allowed the hours to pass and still hesitated
to explain further than she had explained to Captain Stephens. It
was much easier to let things continue as they were; and there
was, after all, so little that she was at liberty to tell them.

In the short time since meeting them, the girl had grown to like
Dextry, with his blunt chivalry and boyish, whimsical philosophy,
but she avoided Glenister, feeling a shrinking, hidden terror of
him, ever since her eavesdropping of the previous night. At the
memory of that scene she grew hot, then cold--hot with anger, icy
at the sinister power and sureness which had vibrated in his
voice. What kind of life was she entering where men spoke of
strange women with this assurance and hinted thus of ownership?
That he was handsome and unconscious of it, she acknowledged, and
had she met him in her accustomed circle of friends, garbed in the
conventionalities, she would perhaps have thought of him as a
striking man, vigorous and intelligent; but here he seemed
naturally to take on the attributes of his surroundings, acquiring
a picturesque negligee of dress and morals, and suggesting rugged,
elemental, chilling potentialities. While with him--and he had
sought her repeatedly that day--she was uneasily aware of his
strong personality tugging at her; aware of the unbridled
passionate flood of a nature unbrooking of delay and heedless of
denial. This it was that antagonized her and set her every mental
sinew in rigid resistance.

During Dextry's garrulous ramblings, Glenister emerged from the
darkness and silently took his place beside her, against the rail.