"I hope not," said the voice. "I'd hate to be guilty of dress slaughter even in the second degree. Sure you are not hurt? Sit down a minute; here's a chair right behind you, out of the wind."

Guinevere groped about for the chair. "Mother can mend it," she went on, voicing her anxiety, "if it isn't too bad."

"And if it is?" asked the voice.

"I'll have to wear it, anyhow. It's brand splinter new, the first one I ever had made by a sure-enough dressmaker."

"My abominable legs!" muttered the voice.

Guinevere laughed, and all at once became curious concerning the person who belonged to the legs.

He had dropped back into his former position, with feet outstretched, hands in pockets, and cap pulled over his eyes, and he did not seem inclined to continue the conversation.

She drew in deep breaths of the cool air, and watched the big side-wheel churn the black water into foam, and throw off sprays of white into the darkness. She liked to be out there in the sheltered corner, watching the rain dash past, and to hear the wind whistling up the river. She was glad to be in the dark, too, away from all those gentlemen, so ready with their compliments. But the sudden change from the heated saloon to the cold deck chilled her, and she sneezed.

Her companion stirred. "If you are going to stay out here, you ought to put something around you," he said irritably.

"I'm not very cold. Besides, I don't want to go in. I don't want them to make me sing any more. Mother'll be awfully provoked if I take cold, though. Do you think it's too damp?"

"There's my overcoat," said the man, indifferently; "you can put that around you if you want to."

She struggled into the large sleeves, and he made no effort to help her.

"You don't like music, do you?" she asked navely as she settled back in her chair.

"Well, yes," he said slowly. "I should say the thing I dislike least in the world is music."

"Then why didn't you come in to hear me play?" asked Guinevere, emboldened by the darkness.

"Oh, I could hear it outside," he a.s.sured her; "besides, I have a pair of defective lamps in my head. The electric lights hurt my eyes."

He struck a match as he spoke to relight his pipe, and by its flare she caught her first glimpse of his face, a long, slender, sensitive face, brooding and unhappy.

"I guess you are Mr. Hinton," she said as if to herself.

He turned with the lighted match in his hand. "How did you know that?"

"The captain told me. He pointed out you and Mr. Mathews, but he didn't tell me any of the rest."

"A branch of your education that can afford to remain neglected," said Mr. Hinton as he puffed at his pipe.

The door of the saloon swung open, and the chubby gentleman appeared in the light, shading his eyes, and calling out that they were all waiting for the little canary-bird.

"I don't want to go," whispered Guinevere, shrinking back into the shadow.

The chubby gentleman peered up and down the deck, then, a.s.sailed by a gust of wind, beat a hasty retreat.

"I don't like him," announced Guinevere, drawing a breath of relief. "It isn't just because he's fat and ugly; it's the silly way he looks at you."

"What a pity you can't tell him so!" said her companion, dryly. "Such blasphemy might do him good. He is the scion of a distinguished family made wealthy by the glorious sale of pork."

"Are all the gentlemen millionaires?" asked Guinevere in awe.

"Present company excepted," qualified Hinton.

"It'll seem awful small to them down in the Cove. Why, we haven't got room enough at the two hotels to put them all up."

"Oh, you live there, do you?"

"Yes; I've just been up at Coreyville spending the night. I used to hate it down at the Cove, it was so little and stupid; but I like it better now."

There was a long silence, during which each pursued a widely different line of thought.

"We have got a newspaper at the Cove now," announced Guinevere. "It's an awful nice paper, called 'The Opp Eagle.'"

"Opp?" repeated Hinton. "Oh, yes, that was the man I telephoned to. What sort of chap is he, anyhow?"

"He's awfully smart," said Guinevere, her cheeks tingling. "Not so much book learning, but a fine brain. The preacher says he's got a natural gift of language. You ought to see some of his editorials."

"Hiding his light under a bushel, isn't he?"

"That's just it," said Guinevere, glad to expatiate on the subject. "If Mr. Opp could get in a bigger place and get more chances, he'd have a lot more show. But he won't leave Miss Kippy. She's his sister, you know; there is only the two of them, and she's kind of crazy, and has to have somebody take care of her. Mother thinks it's just awful he don't send her to an asylum, but I know how he feels."

"Is he a young man?" asked Mr. Hinton.

"Well--no, not exactly; he's just seventeen years and two months older than I am."

"Oh," said Hinton, comprehensively.

There was another long pause, during which Guinevere turned things over in her mind, and Mr. Hinton knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"I think girls seem a good deal older than they are, don't you?" she asked presently.

"Some girls," Hinton agreed.

"How old would you take me for?"

"In the dark?"

"Yes."

"About twelve."

"Oh, that's not fair," said Guinevere. "I'm eighteen, and lots of people take me for twenty."

"That is when they can see you," said Hinton.

Guinevere decided that she did not like him. She leaned back in her corner and tried not to talk. But this course had its disadvantage, for when she was silent he seemed to forget she was there.