After a time a couple of perky young stewards appeared with huge iron
trays, containing thick white cups half full of chicken broth, and piles
of biscuits. Upon this, the pouter-pigeon lady bore off her small son to
be fed, other mothers did the same, and the remaining children, at the
lure of food, sidled off of their own accord, or sped wildly, whooping
out promises to return. For the moment, the story-teller was alone.
Stefan, seeing the Scot bearing down upon her with two cups of broth in
his hand and purpose in his eye, wakened to the danger just in time.
Throwing his cigarette overboard, he sprang lightly between her and the
approaching menace.

"Won't you be perfectly kind, and come for a walk?" he asked, stooping to
where she sat. The girl looked up into a pair of green-gold eyes set in a
brown, eager face. The face was lighted with a smile of dazzling
friendliness, and surmounted by an uncovered head of thick, brown-black
hair. Slowly her own eyes showed an answering smile.

"Thank you, I should love to," she said, and rising, swung off beside
him, just in time--as Stefan maneuvered it--to avoid seeing the Scot and
his carefully balanced offering. Discomfited, that individual consoled
himself with both cups of broth, and bided his time.

"My name is Stefan Byrd. I am a painter, going to America to sell some
pictures. I'm twenty-six. What is your name?" said Stefan, who never
wasted time in preliminaries and abhorred small talk--turning his
brilliant happy smile upon her.

"To answer by the book," she replied, smiling too, "my name is Mary
Elliston. I'm twenty-five. I do odd jobs, and am going to America to try
to find one to live on."