years," he answered gravely.
"That is a long time."
"Sometimes it was like eternity."
"I have heard from the purser of your good luck."
"Oh!" He stooped again and locked the door of Rajah's cage. "I dare say a good many people will hear of it."
"It was splendid. I love to read stories like that, but I'd far rather hear them told first-hand."
Elsa was not romantic in the sense that she saw heroes where there were only ordinary men; but she thrilled at the telling of some actual adventure, something big with life. Her heart and good will went out to the man who won against odds. Strangely enough, soldier's daughter though she was, the pomp and glamour and cruelty of war were detestable to her. It was the obscure and unknown hero who appealed to her: such a one as this man might be.
"Oh, there was nothing splendid about the thing. I simply hung on." Then a thought struck him. "You are traveling alone?"
"With a companion." A peculiar question, she thought.
"It is not wise," he commented.
"My father was a soldier," she replied.
"It isn't a question of bravery," he replied, a bit of color charging under his skin.
Elsa was amused. "And, pray, what question is it?" He was like a boy.
"I'm afraid of making myself obscure. This world is not like your world. Women over here … Oh, I've lost the art of saying things clearly." He pulled at his beard embarrassedly.
"I rather believe I understand you. The veneer cracks easily in hot climates; man's veneer."
"And falls off altogether."
"Are you warning me against yourself?"
"Why not? Twenty thousand pounds do not change a man; they merely change the public's opinion of him. For all you know, I may be the greatest rascal unhanged."
"But you are not."
He recognized that it was not a query; and a pleasurable thrill ran over him. Had there been the least touch of condescension in her manner, he would have gone deep into his shell.
"No; there are worse men in this world than I. But we are getting away from the point, of women traveling alone in the East. Oh, I know you can protect yourself to a certain extent. But everywhere, on boats, in the hotels, on the streets, are men who have discarded all the laws of convention, of the social contract. And they have the keen eye of the kite and the vulture."
To Elsa this interest in her welfare was very diverting. "In other words, they can quickly discover the young woman who goes about unprotected? Don't you think that the trend of the conversation has taken rather a remarkable turn, not as impersonal as it should be?"
"I beg your pardon!"
"I am neither an infant nor a fool, Mr. Warrington."
"Shall I go?"
"No. I want you to tell me some stories." She laughed. "Don't worry about me, Mr. Warrington. I have gone my way alone since I was sixteen. I have traveled all over this wicked world with nobody but the woman who was once my nurse. I seldom put myself in the way of an affront. I am curious without being of an investigating turn of mind. Now, tell me something of your adventures. Ten years in this land must mean something. I am always hunting for Harun-al-Raschid, or Sindbad, or some one who has done something out of the ordinary."
"Do you write books?"
"No, I read them by preference."
"Ah, a good book!" He inclined against the rail and stared down at the muddy water. "Adventure?" He frowned a little. "I'm afraid mine wouldn't read like adventures. There's no glory in being a stevedore on the docks at Hongkong, a stoker on a tramp steamer between Singapore and the Andaman Islands. What haven't I been in these ten years?" with a shrug. "Can you fancy me a deck-steward on a P. & O. boat, tucking old ladies in their chairs, staggering about with a tray of broth-bowls, helping the unsteady to their staterooms, and touching my cap at the end of the voyage for a few shillings in tips?"
"You are bitter."
"Bitter? I ought not to be, with twenty thousand pounds in my pocket."
"Tell me more."
He looked into her beautiful face, animated by genuine interest, and wondered if all men were willing so readily to obey her.
"It always interests me to hear from the man's own lips how he overcame obstacles."
"Sometimes I didn't overcome them. I ran away. After all, the strike in oil was a fluke."
"I don't think so. But go on," she prompted.
"Well, I've been manager of a cocoanut plantation in Penang; I've helped lay tracks in Upper India; had a hand in some bridges; sold patent-medicines; worked in a ruby mine; been a haberdasher in the Whiteaway, Laidlaw shop in Bombay; cut wood in the teak forests; helped exterminate the plague at Chitor and Udaipur; and never saved a penny. I never had an adventure in all my life."
"Why, your wanderings were adventures," she insisted. "Think of the things you could tell!"
"And never will," a smile breaking over his face.
How like Arthur's that smile was! thought the girl. "Romantic persons never have any adventures. It is to the prosaic these things fall. Because of their nearness you lose their values."
"There is some difference between romance and adventure. Romance is what you look forward to; adventure is something you look back upon. If many disagreeable occupations, hunger and an occasional fisticuff, may be classed as adventure, then I have had my run of it. But I always supposed adventure was the finding of treasures, on land and on sea; of filibustering; of fighting with sabers and pistols, and all that rigmarole. I can't quite lift my imagination up to the height of calling my six months' shovel-engineering on The Galle an adventure. It was brutal hard work; and many times I wanted to jump over. The Lascars often got out of trouble that way."
"It all depends upon how we look at things." She touched the parrot-cage with her foot, and Rajah hissed. "What would you say if I told you that I was unconventional enough to ask the purser to introduce you?"
The amazement in his face was answer enough.
"Don't you suppose," she went on, "the picture you presented, standing on that ledge, the red light of the torch on your face, the bird-cage in your hand—don't you suppose you roused my sense the romantic to the highest pitch? Parrot & Co.!" with a wave of her hands.
She was laughing at him. It could not be otherwise. It made him at once sad and angry. "Romance! I hate the word. Once I was as full of romance as a water-chestnut is of starch. I again affirm that young women should not travel alone. They think every bit of tinsel is gold, every bit of colored glass, ruby. Go home; don't bother about romance outside of books. There it is safe. The English are right. They may be snobs when they travel abroad, but they travel securely. Romance, adventure! Bah! So much twaddle has been written about the East
