THE DANCE ON DECK.
That evening the decks presented a gala appearance. On every available
place, swung clear across the deck, were Japanese and Chinese lanterns
and flags of every nation. The band commenced playing even while they
were yet at dinner, and the strains of music floated into the
dining-room, acting as an appetizer to the passengers, and giving them
anticipation of the pleasant evening in store. About seven o'clock the
guests, dressed in evening costume, began to stroll on deck, and as the
darkness slowly chased away the light, the pat of dainty feet mingled
with the strains of music, the sough of the sea and the sigh of the
wind. Lighted solely by the moon and the swinging lanterns, the scene on
deck was as beautiful as a fairyland picture.
Cleo Ballard was not dancing. She was sitting back in a sheltered corner
with Takashima. Her eyes often wandered to the gay dancers, and her
little feet at times could scarcely keep still. Yet it was of her own
free will that she was not dancing. When she had first come on deck she
was soon surrounded with eager young men ready to be her partners in the
dance. The girl had stood laughingly in their midst, answering this one
with saucy wit and repartee, snubbing that one (when he deserved it),
and looking nameless things at others. And as she stood there laughing
and talking gayly, a girl had passed by her and made some light remark.
She did not catch the words. A few moments after she saw the same girl
sitting alone with Takashima, and there was a curiously stubborn look
about Cleo's eyes when she turned them away.
"Don't bother me, boys," she said. "I don't believe I want to dance just
yet. Perhaps later, when it gets dark. I believe I'll sit down for a
while anyhow."
She found her way to where Takashima and Miss Morton were sitting. Miss
Morton was talking very vivaciously, and the Japanese was answering
absently. As Cleo came behind him and rested her hand for a moment on
the back of his deck-chair, he started.
"Ah, is it you?" he said, softly. "Did you not say that you would
dance?"
"It is a little early yet," the girl answered. "See, the sun has not
gone down yet. Let us watch it."
They drew their deck-chairs quite close to the guard-rail, and watched
the dying sunset.
"It is the most beautiful thing on earth," said Cleo Ballard, and she
sighed vaguely.
The Japanese turned and looked at her in the semi-darkness.
"Nay! _you_ are more beautiful," he said, and his face was eloquent in
its earnestness. The girl turned her head away.
"Tell me about the women in Japan," she said, changing the subject.
"Are not they very beautiful?"
Takashima's thoughtful face looked out across the ocean waste. "Yes," he
said slowly; "I have always thought so. Still, none of them is as
beautiful as you are--or--or--as kind," he added, hesitatingly.
The man's homage intoxicated Cleo. She knew all the men worth knowing on
board--had known many of them in America. She had tired, bored herself,
flirting with them. It was a refreshment to her now to wake the
admiration--the sentiment--of this young Japanese, because they had told
her he always concealed his emotions so skillfully. Not for a moment did
she, even to herself, admit that it was more than a mere passing fancy
she had for him. She could not help it that he admired her, she told
herself, and admiration and homage were to her what the sun and rain is
to the flowers. That Takashima could never really be anything to her she
knew full well; and yet, with a woman's perversity, she was jealous even
at the thought that any other woman should have the smallest thought
from him. It is strange, but true, that a woman often demands the entire
homage and love of a man she does not herself actually love, and only
because of the fact that he does love her. She resents even the smallest
wavering of his allegiance to her, even though she herself be impossible
for him. It was because she fancied she saw a rival in Miss Morton that
for a moment she became possessed of a wish to monopolize him entirely,
so long as she would be with him.
When Miss Morton, who soon perceived that she was not wanted, made a
slight apology for leaving them, Cleo turned and said, very sweetly:
"Please don't mention it."