"Marcia," called the admiral, tapping lightly on the state-room door
with the back of his fingernails, "Marcia, my dear, I hope you're
better. Come out with me; it's--oh, ah--where's Miss Marcia?"
The door had been opened by the courier maid, whose wilted and forlorn
appearance was eloquent of her failure to live up to at least one item
in her letter of recommendation.
"Miss Dorn has gone up to--ze deck, Monsieur."
"Humph! I didn't see her. When did she go?"
"Since early zis morning, Monsieur," rejoined the well-recommended one
rather despondently.
Perhaps she might have gone on to say something more, but the admiral
stamped down the passageway. The maid looked on her features in the
glass much as one might inspect a barometer, drew a weak, despairing
breath, and laid herself down on the sofa again, her relaxed person
responding inertly to the steamer's vibrations.
Now, Admiral Page Paulding was as sweet-tempered an old sea-dog as
ever retired from the employ of an ungrateful country; but foggy
weather always worked a bit on his nerves--and what hands he had held
that morning in the smoke-room! As he thumped up the rubber-carpeted
staircase he knew that he was in a thoroughly bad humor, but made up
his mind to conceal it. And there were reasons. When a man has reached
the age when by all rights he should be a grandfather, and finds
himself only a foolish old-bachelor uncle personally conducting a
young niece of marriageable age and attractive exterior on her first
trip to Europe, it may well be said: "Of each day learneth he
experience." Aside from the avuncular privilege of paying bills, he
had known the jealous promptings of a father, indulged in the
self-communing suspicions of a mother, and supported smilingly the
irritations of a chaperon. The enforced companionship of a courier
maid does not lessen the perplexities of certain situations nor
lighten the burden of responsibility.
If the truth be told, the admiral's retirement, this time, from what
might quite properly be termed active service would be accompanied by
no bitter heartburnings and regrets. Rather--yes, many times
rather--would he con a fleet of battle-ships through the tortuous
turnings of Smith Island Sound than again personally conduct one
attractive and impulsive young female through the hotel-strewn shoals
of Europe. There was that German baron in Switzerland, that dashing
young lieutenant of cavalry in Vienna, and that persistent
Englishman--oh, that _persistent_ Englishman!--who turned up
everywhere, and would not be turned down! There was a good deal back
of the cablegram the old gentleman had sent Mrs. Dorn, his sister,
from Southampton, which had read:
Sailing _Caronia_, unentangled, on Wednesday.
"That means only three days more now," mused the admiral, recalling
these words to himself as he came out on the promenade-deck. He stood
there a moment, looking about him, hoping for a glimpse of a slim
young figure. But no sign! His conscience smote him a little. Maybe he
had been somewhat neglectful for the past two days; but then--All at
once he noticed the remarkable change in the weather.
From a foggy, dreary morning it had grown into a crisp, sparkling
afternoon. The long, sweeping seas, the aftermath of some heavy blow
to the northward, had subsided. Passengers who had kept to their
cabins, or who had huddled in the corners of saloon or library, were
emerging on the decks. Those who had braved the weather rather than
face the close air below looked up, mummy-wise, from their swathings
with hopes of returning appetites.
It had needed but a short perusal of the passenger-list to show him
that his niece and he had several acquaintances as fellow-travelers on
this homeward and thrice welcome voyage. One of the swaddled objects
suddenly turned and addressed him:
"Looking for Miss Dorn, Admiral?"
"Oh, how d'ye do--Mrs. ----" For the life of him, he couldn't remember
the lady's name. "Lovely day--er, yes; have you seen Marcia anywhere?"
"Yes; she's been walking up and down here for an hour with Victor
Masterson and my----"
"With--what did you say his name was?"
"Victor Masterson."
"Is he an Englishman?"
"Oh, no; very much of an American, I should say--oh, most amusing and
entertaining. My daughter has met him somewhere. I think you will find
the young people up in that direction, playing some game or other."
The admiral thanked the swaddled lady and strode forward impatiently.
All at once he stopped.
"I wonder," said he to himself, "if that's the silly ass I squelched
t'other day in the smoke-room; just like Marcia to have picked him
out!"
* * * * *
In the sunniest corner of the promenade-deck a quartermaster had laid
the numbered squares of a shuffleboard. The game was over, but two
young people still lingered, leaning against the rail. One was a tall,
slender girl with red lips, red cheeks, tan-colored hair, and tan
shoes, and the other was a very slight, extremely round-faced young
man whose attire and manners could best be described as "insistent."
He was one of the kind that appears in all weathers without a hat and
that persists in attracting attention to large feet and bony ankles by
wearing turned-up trousers, low shoes, and vivid half-hose. At this
moment he was enjoying himself, and so was the girl.
"Was he large and rather red-faced?" she asked, following up something
her companion was saying.
"Yes, with two bunches of iron-gray spinach growing down like this;
and he beckoned me over to him and said, 'Young man, you're playing
the clown'; and I said, 'You play you're the elephant, and we'll be a
circus.'"
The round-faced one te-heed in a way that was contagious; Miss Dorn
quite loved him for it.
"Do that again," she said.
"Do what?"
"Make that little squeak."
He looked at her with mock seriousness. "Oh, please don't! Please
don't!" He spoke imploringly. "I am very touchy about my laugh--it's
the only one I've got, you know. It's quite childish, isn't it? Never
grew up, you know." He made the funny little sound again. It was like
the bleating of a toy lamb when its head is twisted. "You know, they
ask me how I do it. I don't know; I try to teach other people--they
never seem to get it right. Do you like it?"
Miss Dorn laughed again and looked gratefully at him.
"Oh, I'm so glad I met you!" she said quite frankly--and then,
mischievously: "I'll ask my uncle to forgive you, if you like."
"Your uncle!"
"Yes, the old gentleman with the--er--spinach."
If Mr. Masterson was simulating embarrassment, he did it very
cleverly: he started to say something once or twice, changed his mind
confusedly, and suddenly, putting the shuffleboard stick under his
arm, began to imitate a guitar.