st cruelty, certainly selfishness, preserved the face from
effeminacy at the sacrifice of artistic perfection. Stephen noticed with
mingled curiosity and disapproval that the Arab appeared to be vain of
his hands, on which he wore two or three rings that might have been
bought in Paris, or even given him by European women--for they looked
like a woman's rings. The brown fingers were slender, tapering to the
ends, and their reddened nails glittered. They played, as the man
talked, with a piece of bread, and often he glanced down at them, with
the long eyes which had a blue shadow underneath, like a faint smear of
kohl.

Stephen wondered what Victoria Ray thought of her _vis-a-vis_; but in
the presence of the staring bride and groom he could ask no questions,
and the expression of her face, as once she quietly regarded the Arab,
told nothing. It was even puzzling, as an expression for a young girl's
face to wear in looking at a handsome man so supremely conscious of sex
and of his own attraction. She was evidently thinking about him with
considerable interest, and it annoyed Stephen that she should look at
him at all. An Arab might misunderstand, not realizing that he was a
legitimate object of curiosity for eyes unused to Eastern men.

After luncheon Victoria went to her cabin. This was disappointing.
Stephen, hoping that she might come on deck again soon, and resume their
talk where it had broken off in the morning, paced up and down until he
felt drowsy, not having slept in the train the night before. To his
surprise and disgust, it was after five when he waked from a long nap,
in his stateroom; and going on deck he found Miss Ray in her chair once
more, this time apparently deep in "Monte Cristo."

V

He walked past, and she looked up with a smile, but did not ask him to
draw his chair near hers, though there was a vacant space. It was an
absurd and far-fetched idea, but he could not help asking himself if it
were possible that she had picked up any acquaintance on board, who had
told her he was a marked man, a foolish fellow who had spoiled his life
for a low-born, unscrupulous woman's sake. It was a morbid fancy, he
knew, but he was morbid now, and supposed that he should be for some
time to come, if not for the rest of his life. He imagined a difference
in the girl's manner. Maybe she had read that hateful interview in some
paper, when she was in London, and now remembered having seen his
photograph wit