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Page 62
So did Fitzgerald, for that matter.
It took Cathewe just as long, but he did not make two or three
selections of this or that before finding what he wanted. He was
engrossed most of the time in the sober contemplation of the rubber
flooring or the running sea outside the port-hole.
And this night Hildegarde von Mitter was meditating on the last throw
for her hopes. She determined to cast once more the full sun of her
beauty into the face of the man she loved; and if she failed to win,
the fault would not be hers. Why could she not tear out this maddening
heart of hers and fling it to the sea? Why could she not turn it
toward the man who loved her? Why, why? Why should God make her so
unhappy? Why such injustice? Why this twisted interlacing of lives?
And yet, amid all these futile seekings, with subconscious deftness her
hands went on with their appointed work. Never again would the
splendor of her beauty burn as it did this night.
Laura, alone among them all, went serenely about her toilet. She was
young, and love had not yet spread its puzzle before her feet.
As for the others, they were on the far side of the hill, whence the
paths are smooth and gentle and the prospect is peacefulness and the
retrospect is dimly rosal. They dressed as they had done those twenty
odd years, plainly.
On the bridge the first officer was standing at the captain's side.
"Captain," he shouted, "where did you get that Frenchman?"
"Picked him up day before yestiddy. Speaks fair English an' a bit o'
Dago. They're allus handy on a pleasure-boat. He c'n keep off th'
riffraff boatmen. An' _you_ know what persistent cusses they be in the
Med'terranean. Why?"
"Oh, nothing, if he's a good sailor. Notice his hands?"
"Why, no!"
"Soft as a woman's."
"Y' don't say! Well, we'll see 'em tough enough before we sight
Funchal. Smells good up here; huh?"
"Yes; but I don't mind three months on land, full pay. Not me. But
this Frenchman?"
"Oh, he had good papers from a White Star liner; an' you can leave it
to me regardin' his lily-white hands. By th' way, George, will you
have them bring up my other leg? Th' salt takes th' color out o' this
here brass ferrule, an' rubber's safer."
"Yes, sir."
There was one vacant chair in the dining-salon. M. Ferraud was
indisposed. He could climb the highest peak, he could cross
ice-ridges, with a sheer mile on either side of him, with never an
attack of vertigo; but this heaving mystery under his feet always got
the better of him the first day out. He considered it the one flaw in
an otherwise perfect system. Thus, he misled the comedy and the
tragedy of the eyes at dinner, nor saw a woman throw her all and lose
it.
CHAPTER XVI
CROSS-PURPOSES
"Is there anything I can do for you?" asked Fitzgerald, venturing his
head into M. Ferraud's cabin.
"Nothing; to-morrow it will all be gone. I am always so. The
miserable water!" M. Ferraud drew the blanket under his chin.
"When you are better I should like to ask you some questions."
"My friend, you have been very good. I promise to tell you all when
the time comes. It will interest you."
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