"Didn't you see me here?
Don't you want to come and talk to me ?" "No," answered Vandover, smiling good-humouredly, trying to be as polite as was possible.

"No, I don't." Then he took a sudden resolution, and added gravely, "I don't want to have anything to do with you." In his stateroom, as he sat on the edge of his berth winding his watch before going to bed, he thought over what he had said.

"That was a mean way to talk to a girl," he told himself, "but," he added, "it's the only thing to do.

I simply couldn't start in again after all that's happened.
Oh, yes, that was the right thing to do!" He felt a glow of self-respect for his firmness and his decision, a pride in the unexpected strength, the fine moral rigour that he had developed at the critical moment.

He _could_ turn sharp around when he wanted to, after all.