reviewed in his mind the events of the day before. He remembered his
very pleasant walk and talk with Miss Earle. He knew the talk had been
rather purposeless, being merely that sort of preliminary conversation
which two people who do not yet know each other indulge in, as a
forerunner to future friendship. Then, he thought of his awkward
leave-taking of Miss Earle when he presented her with the cup of coffee,
and for the first time he remembered with a pang that he had under his
arm a camp-stool. It must have been evident to Miss Earle that he had
intended to sit down and have a cup of coffee with her, and continue the
acquaintance begun so auspiciously that morning. He wondered if she had
noticed that his precipitate retreat had taken place the moment there
appeared on the deck a very handsome and stylishly dressed young lady.
He began to fear that Miss Earle must have thought him suddenly taken
with insanity, or, worse still, sea-sickness. The more Morris thought
about the matter the more dissatisfied he was with himself and his
actions. At breakfast--he had arrived very late, almost as Miss Earle
was leaving--he felt he had preserved a glum, reticent demeanour, and
that he had the general manner of a fugitive anxious to escape justice.
He wondered what Miss Earle must have thought of him after his eager
conversation of the morning. The rest of the day he had spent gloomily
in the smoking-room, and had not seen the young lady again. The more
he thought of the day the worse he felt about it. However, he was
philosopher enough to know that all the thinking he could do would not
change a single item in the sum of the day's doing. So he slipped back
the curtain on its brass rod and looked out into his state-room. The
valise which he had left carelessly on the floor the night before was
now making an excursion backwards and forwards from the bunk to the
sofa, and the books that had been piled up on the sofa were scattered
all over the room. It was evident that dressing was going to be an
acrobatic performance.