The captain of this splendid steamer was a gentleman as well as a good sailor, and he endeavoured to make his passengers feel at home while under his care. Therefore he now walked aft and stood beside the chair of a beautiful woman who was always alone, always indifferent, always repelling.
“This is a pretty sight, Mrs. Huston,” he said pleasantly, without looking down at her, but standing beside her chair. He gazed across the water towards the Pointe de Raz, with the good-natured patience of a man who does not intend to be snubbed. Once, during his first voyage as commander, a woman had disappeared from the deck one dark night, and since then the shrewd “passenger” captain had kept his eye upon pretty women who neither flirted nor quarrelled at sea.
“Yes,” was the indifferent answer; and the sailor’s keen gray eyes detected the fact that the fair lashes were never raised.
“It brings the fact before one,” he continued, “that we are getting near home.”
“Yes,” with pathetic indifference. She did not even make the pretence of looking up, and yet there was no visible interest in the book that lay upon her lap.
The sailor moved a little, and leant his elbows upon the rail, looking round his ship with a critical and all-seeing eye.
“I hope,” he said cheerily, “that there is no one on board to whom the sight of Eddystone will not give unmitigated pleasure. We shall be there before any of us quite realize that the voyage is drawing to an end.”
Then the beautiful woman made a little effort. The man’s kindness of heart was so obvious, his disinterested desire to cheer her voluntary solitude was so gentlemanly in its feeling and so entirely free from any suggestion of inquisitiveness, that she, as a lady, could no longer treat him coldly. All through the voyage this same quiet watchfulness over her comfort (which displayed itself in little passing acts, and never in words) had been exercised by the man, whose most difficult duties were not, perhaps, connected solely with the perils of the sea. She raised her head and smiled somewhat wanly, and there was in the action and in the expression of her eyes a sudden singular resemblance to Brenda Gilholme. But it was a weak copy. There was neither the invincible pluck nor the unusual intellectuality to be discerned.
“I shall be glad,” she said, “to see England again. Although the voyage has been very pleasant and very … peaceful. Thanks to you.”
“Not at all,” he answered with breezy cheerfulness; “I have done remarkably little to make things pleasant. It has been a quiet voyage. We are, I think, a quiet lot this time. Invalids mostly—in body, or mind!”
At these last words the lady looked up suddenly into the captain’s pleasant face. In her manner there was a faint suggestion of coquetry—so faint as only to be a very pleasing suggestion. Women who have been flirts in former years have this glance, and they never quite lose it. Personally speaking, I like it. There comes from its influence an innocent and very sociable sensation of familiarity with old and young alike. Someday I shall write a learned disquisition on the art and so-called vice of flirting. Look out for it, reader. Mind and secure an early copy from your stationer. From its thoughtful pages you cannot fail to glean some instructive matter. And ye, oh flirts! buy it up and show it to your friends; for it will be a defence of your maligned species. Flirts are the salt of social existence. A girl who cannot flirt is … is … well … is not the girl for me.
The mariner looked down into the sad face, and smiled in a comprehensive way which seemed in some inexplicable manner to bring them closer together.
“Then,” said the lady, “as I am in the enjoyment of rude health and likely to last for some years yet, I may infer that you know all about me.”
The captain looked grave.
“I know,” he answered, “just little enough to be able to reply that I know nothing when people do me the honour of inquiring; and just sufficient to feel that your affairs are better left undiscussed by us.”
She nodded her head, and sat looking at her own hands in a dull, apathetic way. Womanlike, she acted in direct opposition to his most obvious hint.
“I suppose,” she murmured, “that gossips have been thrashing the whole question out with their customary zest.”
“Ceylon is a hotbed of gossips. Everyone is up in his neighbour’s affairs, and a fine voyage in a comfortable steamer is not calculated to still busy tongues!”
She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, and looked up at him with a slight pout of her pretty lips.
“Who cares?” she asked with well-simulated levity. He, however, did not choose to appear as if he were deceived, which simple feat was well within his histrionic capabilities; for his life was one long succession of petty diplomatic efforts.
“I think,” he said coolly, “that you have done perfectly right in keeping yourself quite apart from the rest of them.” He looked round upon the other passengers, seated or lolling about the deck,
