Staniford sat in the moonlight, and tried to think what the steps were that had brought him to this point; but there were no steps of which he was sensible. He remembered thinking the night before that the conditions were those of flirtation¹; to-night this had not occurred to him. The talk had been of the dullest commonplaces; yet he had pressed her hand and kept it in his, and had been about to kiss it. He bitterly considered the disparity between his present attitude and the stand he had taken when he declared to Dunham that it rested with them to guard her peculiar² isolation³ from anything that she could remember with pain or humiliation⁴ when she grew wiser in the world. He recalled his rage with Hicks, and the insulting condemnation⁵ of his bearing towards him ever since; and could Hicks have done worse? He had done better: he had kept away from her; he had let her alone.  
That night Staniford slept badly, and woke with a restless longing⁶ to see the girl, and to read in her face whatever her thought of him had been. But Lydia did not come out to breakfast. Thomas reported that she had a headache, and that he had already carried her the tea and toast she wanted. “Well, it seems kind of lonesome without her,” said the captain. “It don't seem as if we could get along.”
 
It seemed desolate⁷ to Staniford, who let the talk flag and fail round him without an effort to rescue it. All the morning he lurked⁸ about, keeping out of Dunham's way, and fighting hard through a dozen pages of a book, to which he struggled to nail his wandering mind. A headache was a little matter, but it might be even less than a headache. He belated himself purposely at dinner, and entered the cabin just as Lydia issued from her stateroom door.
 
She was pale and looked heavy-eyed. As she lifted her glance to him, she blushed; and he felt the answering red stain his face. When she sat down, the captain patted her on the shoulder with his burly right hand, and said he could not navigate⁹ the ship if she got sick. He pressed her to eat of this and that; and when she would not, he said, well, there was no use trying to force an appetite, and that she would be better all the sooner for dieting. Hicks went to his state-room, and came out with a box of guava jelly, from his private stores, and won a triumph enviable in all eyes when Lydia consented to like it with the chicken. Dunham plundered¹⁰ his own and Staniford's common stock of dainties for her dessert; the first officer agreed and applauded right and left; Staniford alone sat taciturn and inoperative, watching her face furtively¹¹. Once her eyes wandered to the side of the table where he and Dunham sat; then she colored and dropped her glance.
 
He took his book again after dinner, and with his finger between the leaves, at the last-read, unintelligible¹² page, he went out to the bow, and crouched¹³ down there to renew the conflict of the morning. It was not long before Dunham followed. He stooped over to lay a hand on either of Staniford's shoulders.
 
“What makes you avoid me, old man?” he demanded, looking into Staniford's face with his frank, kind eyes.
 
“And I avoid you?” asked Staniford.
 
“Yes; why?”
 
“Because I feel rather shabby, I suppose. I knew I felt shabby, but I didn't know I was avoiding you.”
 
“Well, no matter. If you feel shabby, it's all right; but I hate to have you feel shabby.” He got his left hand down into Staniford's right, and a tacit reconciliation¹⁴ was transacted¹⁵ between them. Dunham looked about for a seat, and found a stool, which he planted in front of Staniford. “Wasn't it pleasant to have our little lady back at table, again?”
 
“Very,” said Staniford.
 
“I couldn't help thinking how droll¹⁶ it was that a person whom we all considered a sort of incumbrance and superfluity at first should really turn out an object of prime importance to us all. Isn't it amusing?”
 
“Very droll.”
 
“Why, we were quite lost without her, at breakfast. I couldn't have imagined her taking such a hold upon us all, in so short a time. But she's a pretty creature, and as good as she's pretty.”
 
“I remember agreeing with you on those points before.” Staniford feigned¹⁷ to suppress fatigue¹⁸.
 
Dunham observed him. “I know you don't take so much interest in her as—as the rest of us do, and I wish you did. You don't know what a lovely nature she is.”
 
“No?”
 
“No; and I'm sure you'd like her.”
 
“Is it important that I should like her? Don't let your enthusiasm for the sex carry you beyond bounds, Dunham.”
 
“No, no. Not important, but very pleasant. And I think acquaintance with such a girl would give you some new ideas of women.”
 
“Oh, my old ones are good enough. Look here, Dunham,” said Staniford, sharply, “what are you after?”
 
“What makes you think I'm after anything?”
 
“Because you're not a humbug¹⁹, and because I am. My depraved spirit instantly recognized the dawning duplicity of yours. But you'd better be honest. You can't make the other thing work. What do you want?”
 
“I want your advice. I want your help, Staniford.”
 
“I thought so! Coming and forgiving me in that—apostolic manner.”
 
“Don't!”
 
“Well. What do you want my help for? What have you been doing?” Staniford paused, and suddenly added: “Have you been making love to Lurella?” He said this in his ironical²⁰ manner, but his smile was rather ghastly.
 
“For shame, Staniford!” cried Dunham. But he reddened violently.
 
“Then it isn't with Miss Hibbard that you want my help. I'm glad of that. It would have been awkward. I'm a little afraid of Miss Hibbard. It isn't every one has your courage, my dear fellow.”
 
“I haven't been making love to her,” said Dunham, “but—I—”
 
“But you what?” demanded Staniford sharply again. There had been less tension of voice in his joking about Miss Hibbard.
 
“Staniford,” said his friend, “I don't know whether you noticed her, at dinner, when she looked across to our own side?”
 
“What did she do?”
 
“Did you notice that she—well, that she blushed a little?”
 
Staniford waited a while before he answered, after a gulp²¹, “Yes, I noticed that.”
 
“Well, I don't know how to put it exactly, but I'm afraid that I have unwittingly wronged this young girl.”
 
“Wronged her? What the devil do you mean, Dunham?” cried Staniford, with bitter impatience²².
 
“I'm afraid—I'm afraid—Why, it's simply this: that in trying to amuse her, and make the time pass agreeably, and relieve her mind, and all that, don't you know, I've given her the impression that I'm—well—interested in her, and that she may have allowed herself—insensibly, you know—to look upon me in that light, and that she may have begun to think—that she may have become—”
 
“Interested in you?” interrupted Staniford rudely.
 
“Well—ah—well, that is—ah—well—yes!” cried Dunham, bracing²³ himself to sustain a shout of ridicule²⁴. But Staniford did not laugh, and Dunham had courage to go on. “Of course, it sounds rather conceited²⁵ to say so, but the circumstances are so peculiar that I think we ought to ............