ject to," he said. "Are you—er—referring to any person in particular?"
She still kept her eyes down, but then she was occupied just at the moment in removing a loose splinter of bamboo from the arm of her chair.
"You mustn't think me curious or—or indiscreet, if I tell you," she said; "but before I knew you to speak to, I—I couldn't help noticing how often, as you sat on deck, you used to pull something out of your pocket and look at it."
"My watch?" suggested Peter, feeling uncomfortable.
"No, not your watch; it looked more like—well, like a photograph."
"It may have been a photograph, now you mention it," he admitted. "Well, Miss Tyrrell?"
"Well," she said, "I often amuse myself by making up stories about people I meet—quite strangers, I mean. And, do you know, I made up my mind that that photograph was the portrait of some one—some lady you are engaged to. I should so much like to know if I was right or not?"
