tewardess if she would receive her in her own cabin, and Grace Mavis
had replied that it was littered up with things and unfit for visitors:
she was packing a trunk over. Jasper made up for his devotion to his
mother the day before by now spending a great deal of his time in the
smoking-room. I wanted to say to him 'This is much better,' but I
thought it wiser to hold my tongue. Indeed I had begun to feel the
emotion of prospective arrival (I was delighted to be almost back in my
dear old Europe again) and had less to spare for other matters. It will
doubtless appear to the critical reader that I had already devoted far
too much to the little episode of which my story gives an account, but
to this I can only reply that the event justified me. We sighted land,
the dim yet rich coast of Ireland, about sunset and I leaned on the edge
of the ship and looked at it. 'It doesn't look like much, does it?' I
heard a voice say, beside me; and, turning, I found Grace Mavis was
there. Almost for the first time she had her veil up, and I thought her
very pale.

'It will be more to-morrow,' I said.

'Oh yes, a great deal more.'

'The first sight of land, at sea, changes everything,' I went on. 'I
always think it's like waking up from a dream. It's a return to
reality.'

For a moment she made no response to this; then she said, 'It doesn't
look very real yet.'

'No, and meanwhile, this lovely evening, the dream is still present.'

She looked up at the sky, which had a brightness, though the light of
the sun had left it and that of the stars had not come out. 'It _is_ a
lovely evening.'

'Oh yes, with this we shall do.'

She stood there a while longer, while the growing dusk effaced the line
of the land more rapidly than our progress made it distinct. She said
nothing more, she only looked in front of her; but her very quietness
made me want to say something suggestive of sympathy and service. I was
unable to think what to say--some things seemed too wide of the mark and
others too importunate. At last, unexpectedly, she appeared to give me
my chance. Irrelevantly, abruptly she broke out:

'Didn't you tell me that you knew Mr. Porterfield?'

'Dear me, yes--I used to see him. I have often wanted to talk to you
about him.'

She turned her face upon me and in the deepened evening I fancied she
looked whiter. 'What good would that do?'

'Why, it would be a pleasure,' I replied, rather foolishly.

'Do you mean for you?'