As she lay in her steamer chair he would at times march stiffly up and down the deck, apparently aware of no other existence than his own, his features expressing a certain clouded resentment of whose very unexplainableness she secretly stood in awe.

She was not astute enough, poor girl, to leave him alone, and when with innocent questionings she endeavoured to discover his trouble, the greatest mystification she encountered was that he had the power to make her feel that she was in some way taking a liberty, and showing her lack of tact and perspicuity.
"Is anything the matter, Nigel ?" she asked at first, wondering if she were guilty of silliness in trying to slip her hand into his.

She was sure she had been when he answered her.
"No," he said chillingly.
"I don't believe you are happy," she returned.

"Somehow you seem so--so different." "I have reasons for being depressed," he replied, and it was with a stiff finality which struck a note of warning to her, signifying that it would be better taste in her to put an end to her simple efforts.
She vaguely felt herself put in the wrong, and he preferred that it should be so.

It was the best form of preparation for any mood he might see that it might pay him to show her in the future.