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“When I don’t see you,” she exclaimed as simply as a child, “I feel so frightened. When I see you I know all will come right. Do you mind if I walk with you?” she asked. “And do you mind if every now and then I ask you to tell me again it will all come right?”

For the three days following Mrs. Ashton and Ford were constantly together. Or, at least, Mrs. Ashton was constantly with Ford. She told him that when she sat in her cabin the old fears returned to her, and in these moments of panic she searched the ship for him.

The doctor protested that he was growing jealous.

“I’m not so greatly to be envied,” suggested Ford. “‘Harry’ at meals three times a day and on deck all the rest of the day becomes monotonous. On a closer acquaintance with Harry he seems to be a decent sort of a young man; at least he seems to have been at one time very much in love with her.”

“Well,” sighed the doctor sentimentally, “she is certainly very much in love with Harry.”

Ford shook his head non-committingly. “I don’t know her story,” he said. “Don’t want to know it.”

The ship was in the channel, on her way to Cherbourg, and running as smoothly as a clock. From the shore friendly lights told them they were nearing their journey’s end; that the land was on every side. Seated on a steamer-chair next to his in the semi-darkness of the deck, Mrs. Ashton began to talk nervously and eagerly.

“Now that we are so near,” she murmured, “I have got to tell you something. If you did not know I would feel I had not been fair. You might think that when you were doing so much for me I should have been more honest.”

She drew a long breath. “It’s so hard,” she said.

“Wait,” commanded Ford. “Is it going to help me to find him?”

“No.”

“Then don’t tell me.”

His tone caused the girl to start. She leaned toward him and peered into his face. His eyes, as he looked back to her, were kind and comprehending.

“You mean,” said the amateur detective, “that your husband has deserted you. That if it were not for the baby you would not try to find him. Is that it?”

Mrs. Ashton breathed quickly and turned her face away.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That is it.”

There was a long pause. When she faced him again the fact that there was no longer a secret between them seemed to give her courage.

“Maybe,” she said, “you can understand. Maybe you can tell me what it means. I have thought and thought. I have gone over it and over it until when I go back to it my head aches. I have done nothing else but think, and I can’t make it seem better. I can’t find any excuse. I have had no one to talk to, no one I could tell. I have thought maybe a man could understand.” She raised her eyes appealingly.

“If you can only make it seem less cruel. Don’t you see,” she cried miserably, “I want to believe; I want to forgive him. I want to think he loves me. Oh! I want so to be able to love him; but how can I? I can’t! I can’t!”

In the week in which they had been thrown together the girl unconsciously had told Ford much about herself and her husband. What she now told him was but an amplification of what he had guessed.

She had met Ashton a year and a half before, when she had just left school at the convent and had returned to live with her family. Her home was at Far Rockaway. Her father was a cashier in a bank at Long Island City. One night, with a party of friends, she had been taken to a dance at one of the beach hotels, and there met Ashton. At that time he was one of a firm that was making book at the Aqueduct race-track. The girl had met very few men and with them was shy and frightened, but with Ashton she found herself at once at ease. That night he drove her and her friends home in his touring-car and the next day they teased her about her conquest. It made her very happy. After that she went to hops at the hotel, and as the bookmaker did not dance, the two young people sat upon the piazza. Then Ashton came to see her at her own house, but when her father learned that the young man who had been calling upon her was a bookmaker he told him he could not associate with his daughter.