At first Mr. Hodden held somewhat aloof from his fellow-passengers; but, finding perhaps that there was no general desire to intrude upon him, he condescended to become genial to a select few. He walked the deck alone, picturesquely attired. He was a man who paid considerable attention to his personal appearance. As day followed day, Mr. Hodden unbent so far as to talk frequently with Miss Jessop on what might almost be called equal terms. The somewhat startling opinions and unexpected remarks of the American girl appeared to interest him, and doubtless tended to confirm his previous unfavourable impressions of the inhabitants of the Western world. Mr. Buel was usually present during these conferences, and his conduct under the circumstances was not admirable. He was silent and moody, and almost gruff on some occasions. Perhaps Hodden’s persistent ignoring of him, and the elder man’s air of conscious superiority, irritated Buel; but if he had had the advantage of mixing much in the society of his native land he would have become accustomed to that. People thrive on the condescension of the great; they like it, and boast about it. Yet Buel did not seem to be pleased. But the most astounding thing was that the young man should actually have taken it upon himself to lecture Miss Jessop once, when they were alone, for some remarks she had made to Hodden as she sat in her deck-chair, with Hodden loquacious on her right and Buel taciturn on her left. What right had Buel to find fault with a free and independent citizen of another country? Evidently none. It might have been expected that Miss Jessop, rising to the occasion, would have taught the young man his place, and would perhaps have made some scathing remark about the tendency of Englishmen to interfere in matters that did not concern them. But she did nothing of the kind. She looked down demurely on the deck, with the faint flicker of a smile hovering about her pretty lips, and now and then flashed a quick glance at the serious face of the young man. The attitude was very sweet and appealing, but it was not what we have a right to expect from one whose ruler is her servant towards one whose ruler is his sovereign. In fact, the conduct of those two young people at this time was utterly inexplicable.

“Why did you pretend to Hodden that you had never heard of him, and make him state that he was a writer of books?” Buel had said.

“I did it for his own good. Do you want me to minister to his insufferable vanity? Hasn’t he egotism enough already? I saw in a paper a while ago that his most popular book had sold to the extent of over 100,000 copies in America. I suppose that is something wonderful; but what does it amount to after all? It leaves over fifty millions of people who doubtless have never heard of him. For the time being I merely went with the majority. We always do that in the States.”

“Then I suppose you will not tell him you bought his latest book in London, and so you will not have the privilege of bringing it up on deck and reading it?”

“No. The pleasure of reading that book must be postponed until I reach New York. But my punishment does not end there. Would you believe that authors are so vain that they actually carry with them the books they have written?”

“You astonish me.”

“I thought I should. And added to that, would you credit the statement that they offer to lend their works to inoffensive people who may not be interested in them and who have not the courage to refuse? Why do you look so confused, Mr. Buel? I am speaking of Mr. Hodden. He kindly offered me his books to read on the way over. He has a prettily bound set with him. He gave me the first to-day, which I read ever so many years ago.”

“I thought you liked his books?”

“For the first time, yes; but I don’t care to read them twice.”

The conversation was here interrupted by Mr. Hodden himself, who sank into the vacant chair beside Miss Jessop. Buel made as though he would rise and leave them together, but with an almost imperceptible motion of the hand nearest him, Miss Jessop indicated her wish that he should remain, and then thanked him with a rapid glance for understanding. The young man felt a glow of satisfaction at this, and gazed at the blue sea with less discontent than usual in his eyes.

“I have brought you,” said the novelist, “another volume.”

“Oh, thank you,” cried Miss Duplicity, with unnecessary emphasis on the middle word.

“It has been considered,” continued Mr. Hodden, “by those whose opinions are thought highly of in London, to be perhaps my most successful work. It is, of course, not for me to pass judgment on such an estimate; but for my own part I prefer the story I gave you this morning. An author’s choice is rarely that of the public.”

“And was this book published in America?”

“I can hardly say it was published. They did me the honour to pirate it in your most charming country. Some friend—or perhaps I should say enemy—sent me a copy. It was a most atrocious production, in a paper cover, filled with mistakes, and adorned with the kind of spelling, which is, alas! prevalent there.”

“I believe,” said Buel, speaking for the first time, but with his eyes still on the sea, “there is good English authority for much that we term American spelling.”

“English authority, indeed!” cried Miss Jessop; “as if we needed English authority for anything. If we can’t spell better than your great English authority, Chaucer—well!” Language seemed to fail the young woman.

“Have you read Chaucer?” asked Mr. Hodden, in surprise.

“Certainly not; but I have looked at his poems, and they always remind me of one of those dialect stories in the magazines.”

Miss Jessop turned over the pages of the book which had been given her, and as she did so a name caught her attention. She remembered a problem that had troubled her when she read the book before. She cried impulsively—“Oh, Mr. Hodden, there is a question I want to ask you about this book. Was—” Here she checked herself in some confusion.

Buel, who seemed to realise the situation, smiled grimly.

“The way of the transgressor is hard,” he whispered in a tone too low for Hodden to hear.

“Isn’t it?” cordially agreed the unblushing young woman.

“What did you wish to ask me?” inquired the novelist.

“Was it the American spelling or the American piracy that made you dislike the United States?”

Mr. Hodden raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, I do not dislike the United States. I have many friends there, and see much to admire in the country. But there are some things that do not commend themselves to me, and those I ventured to touch upon lightly on one or two occasions, much to the displeasure of a section of the inhabitants—a small section, I hope.”

“Don’t you think,” ventured Buel, “that a writer should rather touch on what pleases him than on what displeases him, in writing of a foreign country?”

“Possibly. Nations are like individuals; they prefer flattery to honest criticism.”

“But a writer should remember that there is no law of libel to protect a nation.”

To this remark Mr. Hodden did not reply.

“And what did you object to most, Mr. Hodden?” asked the girl.

“That is a hard question to answer. I think, however, that one of the most deplorable features of American life is the unbridled license of the Press. The reporters make existence a burden; they print the most unjustifiable things in their so-called interviews, and a man has no redress. There is no escaping them. If a man is at all well known, they attack him before he has a chance to leave the ship. If you refuse to say anything, they will write a purely imaginative interview. The last time I visited America, five of them came out to interview me—they came out in the Custom House steamer, I believe.”

“Why, I should feel flattered if they took all that trouble over me, Mr. Hodden.”

“All I ask of them is to leave me alone.”

“I’ll protect you, Mr. Hodden. When they come, you stand near me, and I’ll beat them off with my sunshade. I know two newspaper men—real nice young men they are too—and they always do what I tell them.”

“I can quite believe it, Miss Jessop.”

“Well, then, have no fear while I’m on board.”

Mr. Hodden shook his head. He knew how it would be, he said.

“Let us leave the reporters. What else do you object to? I want to learn, and so reform my country when I get back.”

“The mad passion of the people after wealth, and the unscrupulousness of their methods of obtaining it, seem to me unpleasant phases of life over there.”

“So they are. And what you say makes me sigh for dear old London. How honest they are, and how little they care for money there! They don’t put up the price 50 per cent. merely because a girl has an American accent. Oh no. They think she likes to buy at New York prices. And they are so honourable down in the city that nobody ever gets cheated. Why, you could put a purse up on a pole in London, just as—as—was it Henry the Eighth—?”

“Alfred, I think!” suggested Buel.

“Thanks! As Alfred the Great used to do.”

Mr. Hodden looked askance at the young woman.

“Remember,” he said, “that you asked me for my opinion. If what I have said is offensive to one who is wealthy, as doubtless you are, Miss Jessop, I most sincerely—”

“Me? Well, I never know whether I’m wealthy or not. I expect that before long I shall have to take to typewriting. Perhaps, in that case, you will give me some of your novels to do, Mr. Hodden. You see, my father is on the Street.”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Hodden, “I am sorry to hear that.”

“Why? They are not all rogues on Wall Street, in spite of what the papers say. Remember your own opinion of the papers. They are not to be trusted when they speak of Wall Street men. When my father got very rich once I made him give me 100,000 dollars, so that, should things go wrong—they generally go wrong for somebody on Wall Street—we would have something to live on, but, unfortunately, he always borrows it again. Some day, I’m afraid, it will go, and then will come the typewriter. That’s why I took my aunt with me and saw Europe before it was too late. I gave him a power of attorney before I left, so I’ve had an anxious time on the Continent. My money was all right when we left Liverpool, but goodness knows where it will be when I reach New York.”

“How very interesting. I never heard of a situation just like it before.”

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