In Which I Walk and Talk With Helena

The old man touched his cap again but hesitated. "I'm sure to be asked
something," he said somewhat nervously.

"Say nothing about any change of ownership of this boat, Peterson, and
don't even give the boat's name, unless you must. Just say we will
meet their shipping clerk at slip K, this evening, at nine. Hurry
back, Peterson. And bring a newspaper, please."

"Is any one else going down-town?" asked Peterson. "I may run into
trouble."

"No, we shall all remain aboard."

He departed mournfully enough, seeing that the ferry boat now was
coming across with the railway train. I continued my own moody pacing
up and down the deck. Truth was, I had not seen Helena for more than
twenty-four hours, nor had any word come from the ladies' cabin to
give me hope I ever would see her again of her own will. My surprise,
therefore, was great enough when I heard the after cabin door close
gently as she came out upon the deck.

When last I saw her she had been in tears. Now she was all smiles and
radiant as the dawn! Her gown, moreover, was one I had never seen
before, and she, herself, seemed monstrous pleased with it, for, by
some miracle, fresh as though from the hands of her maid at home, she
knew herself fair and fit enough to make more trouble for mankind.

"Good morning," said she, casually, as though we had parted but lately
and that conventionally. "Isn't it fine?"

"It is a beautiful picture," said I, "and you fit into it. I am glad
to see you looking so well."