She insisted, and he followed her into the kitchen to watch her
struggles. She succeeded in setting the table without breaking more
than one plate, and then she filled the tea-kettle with fresh water from
the demi-john. After that she looked helplessly at Cayley.
"How do you shell these tins?"
"With a can-opener."
She tried for a few moments, biting her lip and pinching her finger in
the attempt. Then she turned to him coaxingly.
"You do it, Blan, please."
He had it open in a minute. She unwrapped the steak, put it into a
frying-pan, unbuttered, and began to struggle with the stove. After she
had lighted a match timidly, she said:
"I'm awfully afraid it'll explode."
He took her in his arms and lifted her to the table, where she sat
swinging her legs, her hands in her apron pockets.
"Confess you don't know a blessed thing about housework or cooking!"
"Of course I don't. What do you take me for? I've lived in restaurants
and boarding-houses all my life--how should I know? But I thought it
was easier than it seems to be. I suppose you have to have a knack for
it."
"I'll show you." He took the apron from her, tying it about his own
waist. With the grace of a chef he set about the preparations for
dinner. He lighted the stove, he put potatoes in the oven to roast, he
heated a tin of soup, washed the lettuce, broiled the steak, cut the
cranberry pie and made a pot full of coffee.
They sat down at the table with gusto and made short work of the
refreshments. Fancy was a little disappointed that they couldn't drop a
line over the side of the boat and fry fish while they were fresh and
wriggling, but she ate her share, nevertheless. She drank cup after cup
of coffee and took a cigarette or two, sitting in blissful content,
listening to the _cluck-cluck_ of water plashing lazily against the
sides of the boat. While they were there still lingering at the table,
the ferry-boat passed them. The ark careened on the swell of the wake,
rising and falling, till the water was spilled from the glasses, and the
dishes lurched this way and that. Fancy screamed with delight at the
motion. For some minutes the hanging lamp above their heads swung
slowly to and fro.
All that sunny, breezy afternoon she sat happily, chattering on the
front platform, watching the yachts that passed out into the lower bay,
the heavily laden ferry-boat that rocked them deliciously in its heaving
wake, and the rowboats full of Sunday excursionists, who hailed them
with slangy banter. She watched the little red-tiled cottages at
Belvedere. She watched the holiday couples walk the Tiburon beach, past
the wreck of the _Tropic Bird_, now transformed into a summer home. She
watched the mauve shadow deepen over Mount Tamalpais and the gray city
of San Francisco looming to the south in a pearly haze. She was
drenched by the salt air and burned by the sunshine; a permanent glow
came to her cheeks, her brown eyes grew wistful. She talked
incessantly.
Cayley amused her all day with his jests and stories. That he was too
subtle for her did not matter. She listened as attentively to his
explanations of the set forms of Japanese verse as she did to his
mechanical love-making. Cayley was not of the impetuous, hot-blooded
type--he preferred the snare to the arrow--his was the wile of the
serpent that charms the bird and makes it approach, falteringly, step by
step, to fall into his power; but his system, if mathematically
accurate, was also artistic. Fancy's devotion to him was
undisguised--he did not need his art. It was she who was spontaneous,
frank and affectionate. He only added a few flourishes.
"Do you love me, Blan?" she asked, warming to him as the sun went down.
"Why, of course I do; haven't I been apodictically adoring you?"
She looked at him, bewildered. "I thought there was something queer
about it; perhaps that's it. But you haven't called me 'dear' once."
"But I've called you 'Nepenthe' and 'Chloe'." He looked down at her
patronizingly.
"'Darling' is good enough for me--I guess I like the old-fashioned words
best, dear," she whispered shyly.
He quoted:
"Some to the fascination of a name
Surrender judgment hoodwinked,"
and laughed to himself at the appositeness of Cowper's lines.
"Oh, yes, you know some lovely poetry, Blan, but I'm afraid I'm not
poetical. I like the things they say in songs,--things I can
understand. I'd rather hear slang--"
"'The illegitimate sister of poetry--'"
She looked up at him blankly. Then she sighed and turned her eyes off
to the darkling water.
"No one ever made love to suit me, somehow--men are queer--they're so
blind--they seem to know so little about the things that mean a lot to a
woman." She shivered. "It's getting chilly, isn't it. I'm cold."
"Shall I get you a wrap?"
She took his arm and placed it about her shoulder. "That'll do," she
said.
"Fancy, you are adorable--you're absolutely complete. You're
unique--you're a nonpareille!"
"I'd rather be a peach," she confessed, snuggling closer.
"You are, Fancy--a clingstone! I'd like to kiss you to death."
"Now, _that's_ the stuff!"
"I'm sorry you don't appreciate my compliments," he remarked, after this
little episode.
"I'm afraid I don't. I'm sorry I'm not intellectual, Blan, but I'd
rather have you call me a 'damn fool' if you said it lovingly, than have
you say pretty things I can't understand."
"All right, then, you're a damn fool!"
She laughed happily. "Thank you, Blan, dear, that was nice! I believe
you're improving."
"Oh, if you prefer Anglo-Saxon, I'll call you a piece, a jade, baggage,
harridan, hussy, minx--"
"Yes, but you must put 'dear' at the end, you know, to show that you're
not in earnest."
"I'll try to remember."
Fancy went on:
"It's wonderful to be out here, all alone with you on the water, cut off
from everything. It satisfies me gorgeously--it's like the taste of
ice-cream to a hungry little kid. I remember how I used to long for it.
I was awfully poor and lonely once. I believe I'm happy now. What do
you think it is, Blan, you or the coffee? Don't you want to hold my
hand? Let's just sit here and forget things--but I haven't very much to
forget, have I? I'd like to read books and know some of the things you
do--but it's too late now--I guess I'll always be ign'ant."
"Oh, I'll teach you all the things you want to know," he said
condescendingly. "You're good material and you'd learn quickly. I
could make a wonder out of you with a little training. I'll give you
lessons if you like."
"I accept," said Fancy Gray.
Then she added:
"I don't expect you'll love me very long, Blan, but you must make up for
it by loving me as much as you can. That's where I can teach you. Men
aren't faithful like women are--I'm glad I'm a woman, Blan."
"I'm glad you are," he echoed.
The night fell, and they began reluctantly to make preparations for
their departure. While Cayley was busy in the kitchen, packing up a
basket to be returned, Fancy went into the little white state-room to do
her hair and put on her wrap.
As she came out she noticed a little card-tray in the corner of the
living-room, and idly turned the names over, one by one. Of a sudden
her hand fell, and her eyes were fixed intently upon a card that had
just come into sight. It bore the legend: