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Page 29
"How well the man has studied his English!" thought Fitzgerald. He
rarely hesitated for a word, and his idioms were always nicely adjusted.
The admiral was alone. He received them with an easy courtliness,
which is more noticeable in the old world than in the new. He directed
the servants to take charge of the luggage, and to Breitmann there was
never a word about work. That had all been decided by letter. He
urged the new secretary to return to the library as soon as he had
established himself.
"Strange that you should know the man," said the admiral. "It comes in
pat. From what you say, he must be a brilliant fellow. But this
situation seems rather out of his line."
"We all have our ups and downs, admiral. I've known a pinch or two
myself. We are an improvident lot, we writers, who wander round the
globe; rich to-day, poor to-morrow. But on the other hand, it's
something to set down on paper what a king says, the turn of a battle,
to hobnob with famous men, explorers, novelists, painters, soldiers,
scientists, to say nothing of the meat in the pie and the bottom crust.
I'm going to write a novel some day myself."
"Here," said the admiral, with a sweep of the hand, which included the
row upon row of books, "come here to do it. Make it a pirate story;
there's always room for another."
"But it takes a Stevenson to write it. It is very good of you, though.
Where is Miss Killigrew this morning?"
"She hasn't returned from her ride. Ah! Come in, Mr. Breitmann, and
sit down. By the way, you two must be fair horsemen."
Breitmann smiled, and Fitzgerald laughed.
"I dare say," replied the latter, "that there's only one thing we two
haven't ridden: ostriches. Camels and elephants and donkeys; we've
done some warm sprinting. Eh, Breitmann?"
The secretary agreed with a nod. He was rather grateful for
Fitzgerald's presence. This occupation was not going to be menial; at
the least, there would be pleasant sides to it. And, then, it might
not take him a week to complete his own affair. There was no
misreading the admiral; he was a gentleman, affable, kindly, and a good
story-teller, too, crisp and to the point, sailor fashion. Breitmann
cleverly drew him out. Pirates! He dared not smile. Why, there was
hardly such a thing in the pearl zone, and China was on the highway to
respectability. And every once in so often there was a futile treasure
hunt! He grew cold. If this old man but knew!
"Do you know butterflies, Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Social?"
The admiral laughed. "No. The law doesn't permit you to stick pins in
that kind. No; I mean that kind," indicating the cases.
Both young men admitted that this field had been left unexplored by
either of them.
It was during a lull, when the talk had fallen to the desultory, that
the hall door opened, and Laura came in. Her cheeks glowed like the
sunny side of a Persian peach; her eyes sparkled; between her moist red
lips there was a flash of firm, white teeth; the seal-brown hair
glinted a Venetian red--for at that moment she stood in the path of the
sunshine which poured in at the window--and blown tendrils in
picturesque disorder escaped from under her hat.
The three men rose hastily; the father with pride, Fitzgerald with
gladness, and Breitmann with doubt and wonder and fear.
CHAPTER VIII
SOME BIRDS IN A CHIMNEY
It might be truthfully said that the tableau lasted as long as she
willed it to last. Perhaps she read in the three masculine faces
turned toward her a triangular admiration, since it emanated from three
given points, and took from it a modest pinch for her vanity. Vain she
never was; still, she was not without a share of vanity, that vanity of
the artless, needing no sacrifices, which is gratified and appeased by
a smile. It pleased her to know that she was lovely; and it doubled
her pleasure to realize that her loveliness pleased others. She
demanded no hearts; she craved no jewels, no flattery. She warmed when
eyes told her she was beautiful; but she chilled whenever the lips took
up the speech, and voiced it. She was one of those happy beings in
either sex who can amuse themselves, who can hold pleasant communion
with the inner self, who can find romance in old houses, and yet love
books, who prefer sunrises and sunsets at first hand, still loving a
good painting.
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