Jimmy sighed softly.     

       "I used to stand and smoke against the railing opposite the barber's shop, and she used to walk round the deck."     

       "And you used to stare at her?"     

       "I would look in her direction sometimes," corrected Jimmy, with dignity.     

       "Don't quibble! You stared at her. You behaved like a common rubber-neck, and you know it. I am no prude, James, but I feel compelled to say that I consider your conduct that of a libertine. Used she to walk alone?"     

       "Generally."     

       "And, now, you love her, eh? You went on board that ship happy, careless, heart-free. You came off it grave and saddened. Thenceforth, for you, the world could contain but one woman, and her you had lost."     

       Mifflin groaned in a hollow and bereaved manner, and took a sip from his glass to buoy him up.     

       Jimmy moved restlessly on the sofa.     

       "Do you believe in love at first sight?" he asked, fatuously. He was in the mood when a man says things, the memory of which makes him wake up hot all over for nights to come.     

       "I don't see what first sight's got to do with it," said Mifflin.       "According to your own statement, you stood and glared at the girl for five days without letting up for a moment. I can quite imagine that you might glare yourself into love with anyone by the end of that time."     

       "I can't see myself settling down," said Jimmy, thoughtfully. "And, until you feel that you want to settle down, I suppose you can't be really in love."     

       "I was saying practically that about you at the club just before you came in. My somewhat neat expression was that you were one of the gypsies of the world."     

       "By George, you're quite right!"     

       "I always am."     

       "I suppose it's having nothing to do. When I was on the News, I was never like this."     

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