Don Carlos was seated opposite her at lunch, but Myra did not attempt
either to thank or blame him, deciding to wait until he himself
referred to the "accident," and discover, if possible, what was in his
mind.

After lunch, most of the other members of the party settled down to
spend the afternoon playing bridge, but Myra went on deck and ensconced
herself in a comfortable chair in a sheltered spot to read and think.

She had not been there more than a few minutes when Don Carlos appeared
beside her chair with a cushion in his hand. Without a word he tossed
the cushion down on the boat-deck at Myra's feet, sat down on it, and
rested his dark head against Myra's knees. He did it all so
deliberately and with such calm assurance that Myra was somehow amused
in spite of herself and laughed involuntarily.

"Evidently the poor man is so overcome by sea-sickness that he doesn't
know what he is doing and needs a nurse!" she exclaimed. "Shall I call
for a steward?"

She slewed her chair round as she spoke, and laughed again as Don
Carlos, suddenly deprived of the support of her knees, fell backward.
He did not seem in the least disconcerted, however, and merely rolled
over on his side, supported his head on one hand, and gazed up at Myra
quizzically.

"That was rather the equivalent of unfastening the bolt of the rail,
was it not, Myra?" he drawled. "I hope you will now proceed to rescue
me from the slough of despond by telling me that you love me and will
marry me?"