A VEILED HINT.
Always, after dinner, the young Japanese would come on deck, having
generally finished his meal before most of the others, and rarely
sitting through the eight or ten courses. Like the rest of his
countrymen, he was a passionate lover of nature. Sunsets are more
beautiful at sea, when they kiss and mirror their wonderful beauty in
the ocean, than anywhere else, perhaps.
Fannie Morton found him in his favorite seat--back against a small
alcove, his small, daintily manicured fingers resting on the back of a
chair in front of him.
She pulled a chair along the deck, and sat down beside him.
"You are selfish, Mr. Takashima," she said, "to enjoy the sunset all
alone."
"Will you not enjoy it also?" he asked, quite gravely. "I like much
better, though," he continued, seeing that she had come up more to talk
than to enjoy the sunset, "to look at the skies and the water rather
than to talk. It is most strange, but one does not care to talk as much
at sea as on land when the evenings advance."
"And yet," Miss Morton said, "I have often heard Miss Ballard's voice
conversing with you in the evening."
The Japanese was silent a moment. Then he said, very simply and
honestly, "Ah, yes, but I would rather hear her voice than all else on
earth. She is different to me."
The girl reddened a trifle impatiently.
"Most men love flirts," she said, sharply.
The Japanese smiled quietly, confidently.
"Yes, perhaps," he said, vaguely, purposely misleading her.
Tom Ballard's hearty voice broke in on them.
"Well," he said, cheerfully, "thought I'd find Cleo with you, Takie,"
and then, smiling gallantly at Miss Morton, "but really, I see you've
got 'metal more attractive.'" He winked, and continued, "Cousins are
privileged beings. Can say lots of things no one else dare."
Fanny Morton's face brightened. She was a pretty girl, with pale brown
hair, and a bright, sharp face.
"Oh, now, Mr. Ballard, you are flattering. What would Miss Cleo say?"
Tom scratched his head. "She would prove, I dare say, that I
was--a--lying."
The play on words had been entirely lost on Takashima, who had become
absorbed in his own reveries. Then Miss Morton's sharp words caught his
ear, and he turned to hear what she was saying. She had mentioned the
name of an old American friend of his, who had gone to Japan some years
before.
"I suppose," Miss Morton had said, "she will be pretty glad when the
voyage is over." She had paused here, and Tom had prompted her with a
quick query, "Why?"
"Oh! for Arthur Sinclair's sake," she had retorted, and laughingly left
them.
Casually, Tom turned to Takashima. "Remember Sinclair, Takie? Great big
fellow at Harvard--in for all the races--rowing--everything going--in
fact, all-round fine fellow?"
"Yes."
"Nice--fellow."
"Yes."
"Er--Cleo--that is, both Cleo and I, are old friends of his, you know."
Takashima's face was still enigmatical.
Cleo had had a headache that evening, and had returned to her stateroom
after dinner. The water was rough, and few of the passengers remained on
deck. Quite late in the evening, Tom went up. The sombre, silent figure
of the Japanese was still there. He had not moved.
"Past eleven," Tom called out to him, and the gently modulated voice of
the Japanese answered, "Yes; I will retire soon."