|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 69
"The villain?"
He was moved suddenly out of his dream, for the object of it stood
smiling at his side. A wisp of hair was blowing across her eyes and
she was endeavoring to adjust it under her cap.
"The villain?" making a fine effort to remarshal his thoughts.
"Yes. We were talking about him last night. Where did you leave him?"
"He was still pursuing, I believe."
"Why don't you make him a real villain, a man who never kills any one,
but who makes every one unhappy?"
"But that's a problem-villain; what we must have is a romance-villain,
the kind every one is sorry for. Look at that old Portuguese
man-o'-war," pointing to the crest of a near-by wave. "Funny little
codger!"
"When do you expect to begin the story on paper?"
"When I have _all_ the material," not afraid of her eyes at that moment.
She propped her elbows on the rail. It was a seductive pose, and came
very near being the young man's undoing.
"Does it seem impossible to you," she said, "that in these prosaic
times we are treasure hunting? Must we not wake up and find it a
dream?"
"Most dreams are perishable, but in this case we have the dream tightly
bound. But what are we going to do with all this money when we find
it?"
"Divide it or start a soldiers' home. I've never thought of it as
money."
"Heaven knows, I have!"
"Why?"
"Do you really wish to know?" in a voice new to her ear. "Do you wish
to know why I want money, lots and lots of it?"
She dropped her arms and turned. The tone agitated and alarmed her
strangely. "Why, yes. With plenty of money you could devote all your
time to writing; and I am sure you could write splendid stories."
"That was not my exact thought," he replied, resolutely pulling himself
together. "But it will serve." By George! he thought, that was close
enough.
She did not ask him what his exact thought was, but she suspected it.
There was a little shock of pleasure and disappointment; the one rising
from the fact that he had stopped where he did and the other that he
had not gone on. And she grew angry over this second expression. She
liked him; she had never met a young man whom she liked more. But
liking is never loving, and her heart was as free and unburdened as the
wind. As once remarked, many of the men with whom she had come into
contact had been bred in idleness, and her interest in them had never
gone above friendly tolerance. Her admiration was for men, young or
old, who cut their way roughly through the world's great obstacles, who
achieved things in pioneering, in history, in science; and she admired
them because they were rather difficult to draw out, being more
familiar with startling journeys, wildernesses, strange peoples, than
with the gilded metaphors of the drawing-room.
And here were three of them to meet daily, to study and to ponder over.
And types as far apart as the three points of a triangle; the man at
her side, young, witty, agreeable; Cathewe, grave, kindly, and
sometimes rather saturnine; Breitmann, proud and reserved; and each of
them having rung true in some great crisis. If ever she loved a
man . . . The thought remained unfinished and she glanced up and met
Fitzgerald's eyes. They were sad, with the line of a frown above them.
How was she to keep him under hand, and still erect an impassable
barrier! It was the first time she had given the matter serious
thought. The joy of the sea underfoot, the tang of the rushing air,
the journey's end, these had occupied her volatile young mind. But now!
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|