He could see that she avoided being alone with him the next day, but he took it for a sign of relenting, perhaps helpless relenting, that she was in her usual place on deck in the evening. He went to her, and, “I see that you haven't forgiven me,” he said.  
“Forgiven you?” she echoed.
 
“Yes,” he said, “for letting that lady ask me to drive with her.”
 
“I never said—” she began.
 
“Oh, no! But I knew it, all the same. It was not such a very wicked thing, as those things go. But I liked your not liking¹ it. Will you let me say something to you?”
 
“Yes,” she answered, rather breathlessly.
 
“You must think it's rather an odd thing to say, as I ask leave. It is; and I hardly know how to say it. I want to tell you that I've made bold to depend a great deal upon your good opinion for my peace of mind, of late, and that I can't well do without it now.”
 
She stole the quickest of her bird-like glances at him, but did not speak; and though she seemed, to his anxious fancy, poising² for flight, she remained, and merely looked away, like the bird that will not or cannot fly.
 
“You don't resent my making you my outer conscience, do you, and my knowing that you're not quite pleased with me?”
 
She looked down and away with one of those turns of the head, so precious when one who beholds³ them is young, and caught at the fringe of her shawl. “I have no right,” she began.
 
“Oh, I give you the right!” he cried, with passionate⁴ urgence. “You have the right. Judge me!” She only looked more grave, and he hurried on. “It was no great harm of her to ask me; that's common enough; but it was harm of me to go if I didn't quite respect her,—if I thought her silly, and was willing to be amused with her. One hasn't any right to do that. I saw this when I saw you.” She still hung her head, and looked away. “I want you to tell me something,” he pursued. “Do you remember once—the second time we talked together—that you said Dunham was in earnest, and you wouldn't answer when I asked you about myself? Do you remember?”
 
“Yes,” said the girl.
 
“I didn't care, then. I care very much now. You don't think me—you think I can be in earnest when I will, don't you? And that I can regret—that I really wish—” He took the hand that played with the shawl-fringe, but she softly drew it away.
 
“Ah, I see!” he said. “You can't believe in me. You don't believe that I can be a good man—like Dunham!”
 
She answered in the same breathless murmur⁶, “I think you are good.” Her averted⁷ face drooped⁸ lower.
 
“I will tell you all about it, some day!” he cried, with joyful⁹ vehemence¹⁰. “Will you let me?”
 
“Yes,” she answered, with the swift expulsion of breath that sometimes comes with tears. She rose quickly and turned away. He did not try to keep her from leaving him. His heart beat tumultuously; his brain seemed in a whirl. It all meant nothing, or it meant everything.
 
“What is the matter with Miss Blood?” asked Dunham, who joined him at this moment. “I just spoke¹¹ to her at the foot of the gangway stairs, and she wouldn't answer me.”
 
“Oh, I don't know about Miss Blood—I don't know what's the matter,” said Staniford. “Look here, Dunham; I want to talk with you—I want to tell you something—I want you to advise me—I—There's only one thing that can explain it, that can excuse it. There's only one thing that can justify¹² all that I've done and said, and that can not only justify it, but can make it sacredly and eternally right,—right for her and right for me. Yes, it's reason for all, and for a thousand times more. It makes it fair for me to have let her see that I thought her beautiful and charming, that I delighted to be with her, that I—Dunham,” cried Staniford, “I'm in love!”
 
Dunham started at the burst in which these ravings ended. “Staniford,” he faltered¹³, with grave regret, “I hope not!”
 
“You hope not? You—you—What do you mean? How else can I free myself from the self-reproach of having trifled with her, of—”
 
Dunham shook his head compassionately¹⁴. “You can't do it that way. Your only safety is to fight it to the death,—to run from it.”
 
“But if I don't choose to fight it?” shouted Staniford,—“if I don't choose to run from it? If I—”
 
“For Heaven's sake, hush¹⁵! The whole ship will hear you, and you oughtn't to breathe it in the desert. I saw how it was going! I dreaded¹⁶ it; I knew it; and I longed to speak. I'm to blame for not speaking!”
 
“I should like to know what would have authorized¹⁷ you to speak?” demanded Staniford, haughtily¹⁸.
 
“Only my regard for you; only what urges me to speak now! You must fight it, Staniford, whether you choose or not. Think of yourself,—think of her! Think—you have always been my ideal of honor and truth and loyalty—think of her husband—”
 
“Her husband!” gasped²⁰ Staniford. “Whose husband? What the deuce—who the deuce—are you talking about, Dunham?”
 
“Mrs. Rivers.”
 
“Mrs. Rivers? That flimsy, feather-headed, empty-hearted—eyes-maker! That frivolous²¹, ridiculous—Pah! And did you think that I was talking of her? Did you think I was in love with her?”
 
“Why,” stammered²² Dunham, “I supposed—I thought—At Messina, you know—”
 
“Oh!” Staniford walked the deck's length away. “Well, Dunham,” he said, as he came back, “you've spoilt a pretty scene with your rot about Mrs. Rivers. I was going to be romantic! But perhaps I'd better say in ordinary newspaper English that I've just found out that I'm in love with Miss Blood.”
 
“With her!” cried Dunham, springing at his hand.
 
“Oh, come now! Don't you be romantic, after knocking my chance.”
 
“Why, but Staniford!” said Dunham, wringing²³ his hand with a lover's joy in another's love and his relief that it was not Mrs. Rivers. “I never should have dreamt of such a thing!”
 
“Why?” asked Staniford, shortly.
 
“Oh, the way you talked at first, you know, and—”
 
“I suppose even people who get married have something to take back about each other,” said Staniford, rather sheepishly. “However,” he added, with an impulse of frankness, “I don't know that I should have dreamt of it myself, and I don't blame you. But it's a fact, nevertheless.”
 
“Why, of course. It's splendid! Certainly. It's magnificent!” There was undoubtedly²⁵ a qualification, a reservation, in ............