American girls very well, or perhaps any girls yet. But then few men do, really. Except poets or novelists. And you're not a poet or a novelist?"

"Rather not!"

"You speak as though I'd asked if you were a pick-pocket. Do you despise writers?"

"I'd be sorry to be one. Wouldn't you?" He ventured this question, which, if answered, might after all send them on the way towards a more friendly understanding. But he seemed destined to put himself in the wrong—although the girl laughed.

"I am one," she said, "I write stories."

"You're chaffing."

"No, I'm not. Why should you think so?"

"Oh, well, because you don't look as if you wrote."

"Thank you. I suppose you mean that for a compliment. But women who write aren't scare-crows nowadays, if they ever were."

"Well, anyhow, you're too young."

"I've been writing stories—and getting them published, too, ever since I was sixteen. That's some years ago now. Please don't say you wouldn't have thought it! That would be too obvious even for an average American's idea of an average Englishman."

"Are you an average American?"

"Are you an average Englishman?"

"Is it fair to answer one question with another?"

"It's said to be American. Didn't you know that?"

"No," said Loveland. "As you thought, I don't know much about Americans yet. I'm going over to the States to learn."

"The States! How English that sounds! We think we're all of America—all that's worth talking about in ordinary conversation. But, by the way, this isn't ordinary conversation, is it? It began with—something to be punished for, on your part; and a wish to punish on mine. It's gone on—because, being a writing person, I suppose, I'm always trying for new points of view, at any cost. You thought I'd taken your chair—as if it were a point of view. I believe you really did think that."

"I did," admitted Val.

"I wonder why? My aunt's name is on it."

"Oh," said Loveland.

"See," went on the girl, leaning forward, and displaying the label in the deck-steward's handwriting.

"I do see," said Val. "But that happens to be my name."

"Loveland?"

"Yes."

The girl blushed brightly. And she was more attractive than ever when she blushed. "Oh, how very odd! Then perhaps this is your chair! How perfectly horrid." She began to unwind herself from the rug which was wrapped round her as a chrysalis round an incipient butterfly.

"Please don't get up." Loveland's tone was almost imploring. "Do keep the chair. I want you to keep it."

"Thank you very much. But I don't want to keep it, if it's yours, and I think now it probably is. If it weren't, you wouldn't have expected to find it waiting for you in this particular place?"

"But you expected to find yours here."

"No, it wasn't that. But as I was passing, I saw my aunt's name on the back of a chair, and because the deck-steward had been told to put one in a nice sheltered place, I took it for granted that this was hers. I didn't know there was another Loveland on the passenger list."

"I noticed there was a Mrs. Loveland," said Val, "but didn't think much about it, as she wasn't likely to turn out a relation of mine. And my name isn't on the list, I came in the place of—another man."

As he made this explanation, with a slight pause which meant the recollection of his promise to Jim Harborough, Major Cadwallader Hunter went by, walking slowly; and, having long-distance ears, heard as he passed. He was waiting for his chance to "nobble" Lord Loveland; and afterwards he remembered those few last words which he had caught. He seldom forgot anything which could possibly matter, even though it might be of seeming insignificance at the time.