with that kind.”
“Have I anything to bite, or to pinch, or to poke?”
“No, only something to light.”
“Very well, light the match.”
“I’m so original,” said the man; “you see I say nothing about your eyes.”
“I noticed your thoughtful consideration,” she replied with a smile. “Many thanks. And now the match, please.”
He scratched it somewhere and offered it. The cigarette lit easily, being of a good kind, and the same light did him equal service.
“How do you find it?” he asked presently.
“I find it horrible,” she gasped; “but my husband never would have allowed it, and so I shall go through with it to the bitter – the awfully bitter – other end.”
“Don’t stick to it if it makes you feel badly,” he said a little anxiously; “remember you have the whole wide ocean before you.”
“Yes,” said Rosina, “I – I was just thinking of that.”
“Are you apt to be seasick?”
“Sometimes I have to lie still a day or two.”
“In your chair?”
“In my berth.”
“Please throw it away at once; I don’t want you to be lying still in your berth a day or two on this voyage, you know.”
There was a very earnest note in his voice; she took the cigarette from between her lips and looked at it meditatively.
“Do throw it overboard immediately,” he begged.
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“But I entreat!”
Then she began to laugh.
“It isn’t the cigarette that I can’t manage, – it’s the throw!”
He sprang to his feet with one vast and comprehensive untuck.
“A thousand pardons! Give it to me.”
She held it out and he took it to the rail. The offshore breeze was growing into a wind that blew the stars out as fast as they appeared and caused the bosom of the ocean to appear unduly agitated.
“Let us walk about a bit,” he suggested, coming back, and noting a certain vagueness in her expression; “come, it’s the best thing for us both, – exercise, you know.”
She smiled faintly.
“I think so too; if you’ll just unswathe me, please.”
He extricated her, and they made the tour of the deck three times.
“Do you get off at Plymouth?” he asked, when they finally came to a standstill beside their own chairs again.
“No, at Cherbourg.”
“And then Paris?”
“Naturally.”
“And then?”
“Anywhere I want to.”
“I’m going to Hamburg and then to Berlin; with me it’s a case of business first and pleasure afterwards.”
“Berlin’s a nice place,” she said thoughtfully; “I’ve been there twice.”
“Wouldn’t you enjoy going there again?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe that I should. You see I went to Berlin both times with my husband, and my present state of mind is such that if I think Berlin will recall my husband to me, I’d rather remain permanently in Cherbourg.”
She stooped and gathered up her rugs preparatory to building a new nest.
“Did you travel much with your husband,” he asked, taking the nest materials from her and sorting them over his arm.
“Yes, I did.” She sat down in the chair. “I travelled a great deal with him; but I intend to travel a great deal more now that I’m without him.”
The man was busy with her cloak and pillows and rugs. They were quite a combination, and the combining was rather a dangerous occupation, the lateness of the hour considered. He lost his head just a little bit.
“You might some day have another,” he suggested in a tone low enough to be thrilling to the thrillable.
Rosina squared herself smilelessly, and the electric deck-light which faced her seat showed up her sobriety in unmistakable colors.
“Watch me!” she said briefly, and her enunciation was clear and very distinct.
He heard.
Chapter Two
THERE was at that particular date a man in Düsseldorf who was quite as set in his ideas as Rosina was in hers. He was lingering from day to day at the Hotel Heck, engaged for the most part in no more arduous pursuit than the awaiting of a telegram from his family. His family were at Evian, on the Lac de Génève, and if they decided to go from there to Paris, he wanted very much to visit Switzerland himself. But if, on the contrary, they merely ended in transferring their abode from Evian to Ouchy, as was very likely to prove to be the case, he had fully made up his mind to pass the early summer months in Leipsic. In Leipsic he had an interest – the one great interest of his existence. The family had but scant sympathy with the force of the Leipsic attraction; their ambitions were set in quite another direction, and all their hopes and plans and wishes were bent to the accomplishment of that one end. They desired most ardently that he should take unto himself a wife, because he was the last of his race, and there was a coronet hung up in the skies above his head. The natural effect of such anxiety upon the uncommon temperament of this particularly uncommon man was to decide him definitely to remain single forever, and because he had always proved himself of a strength of resolve and firmness of purpose quite unequalled in their experience, they felt justified in the gravest fears that in this case, as in all others, he would remain steadfast, keeping the word which he declared that he had solemnly pledged himself, and so become the last of a line whose castle had crowned the crag which it defended since the Goth was abroad in the land.
To be sure, he was not yet so old but that, when he casually glanced at a girl, the girl, her mother, and his mother all immediately held their breath. But he was old enough to have proved the futility of the hope by the casualty of the glance over and over again. And so his people were completely out of patience with him, and he and they found it accordingly more agreeable to take even their Switzerland in individual communion-cups. Therefore he remained in Düsseldorf, wandering in the Hofgarten, listening to the music in the Tonhalle, and occasionally quieting his impatience for the Lake of Lucerne, where his childhood had been passed, by writing a few pages to Leipsic, the scene of his studies and the spot where his one incentive to labor dwelt.
After three weeks of manifold hesitation the family at last concluded to let it be Paris, and thus Southeastern Europe was thrown open to the recalcitrant. It being
