with
his curious, romantic ways. I look upon the Baron de Bach as a kind of
blessed invention for my entertainment on this trip, and that I've
grown to like him better than I expected makes the amusement keener,
of course. I'm tired to death of the commonplace, mild and
circumspect adorer. Baron de Bach is a continual surprise and an
occasional alarm! Nothing reprehensible!" I say, in answer to the
quick lifting of the bandage a second time. "Only he is so unlike all
the other men I have known I can't judge him by any previous standard.
I have the same interest in him Uncle John had in the new variety of
anthropoid ape in the Zoo at home. I study his possibilities, I starve
him, I feed him, I poke him, just to see what he'll do."

"You're a wicked girl," says Mrs. Steele, slowly, "and I'm afraid a
righteous judgment will overtake you. Do you remember telling me how
that same ape tore your Uncle John's hand one day?--and _he_ was
caged."

"Maybe the element of uncertainty accounts for some of the interest,"
I say, yawning. "I believe I'll have a nap before dinner." And soon
all is quiet in stateroom 49.

On Saturday morning, the day following, Mrs. Steele, the Baron and I
are sitting as usual under the deck awning. Baron de Bach is reading a
French story aloud to Mrs. Steele, and I, lying back in my steamer
chair, regard the reader with half-shut but attentive eyes.

"He's only a boy," I ruminate, "a romantic, absurd, but very nice boy.
There's no reason why I shouldn't like him very much; and if he must
be in love with someone, I'm a very safe person for him to select as
the victim." I smile as the last word comes across my mind, for I am
honest enough to doubt if I really mind it so much. The Baron turns a
page and sees the look.

"Vhy you laugh, Senorita?"

"Thinking about something funny."

"I'd think you laugh at me."

"Don't you suppose I may once in a while think of someone else besides
you?" The Baron looks puzzled and a little bit offended.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Steele," says the "Church of England," bustling up
to my friend with Mrs. Ball behind her. "How tired you look! Haven't
you had enough of that French? Baron de Bach has promised to come and
practise over the chants and hymns for to-morrow; can you spare him?
As for you," she says, turning to me, "we shall earn your eternal
gratitude if we carry off the Baron. You know her pet aversion is
having French read out loud"--she nods in a commiserati