Errington muttered something not very flattering to Mr. Dyceworthy's intelligence, which escaped the hearing of his friends; then he said-"Come along, all of you, down into the saloon. We want something to eat. Let the Güldmars alone; I'm not a bit sorry I've asked them to come to-morrow. I believe you'll all like them immensely."
They all descended the stair-way leading to the lower part of the yacht, and Macfarlane asked as he followed his host-"Is the lass vera bonnie did ye say?"
"Bonnie's not the word for it this time," said Lorimer, coolly answering instead of Errington. "Miss Güldmar is a magnificent woman. You never saw such a one, Sandy, my boy; she'll make you sing small with one look; she'll wither you up into a kippered herring! And as for you, Duprèz," and he regarded the little Frenchman critically, "let me see,--you may possibly reach up to her shoulder,--certainly not beyond it."
"Pas possible!" cried Duprèz. "Mademoiselle is a giantess."
"She needn't be a giantess to overtop you, mon ami," laughed Lorimer with a lazy shrug. "By Jove, I am sleepy, Errington, old boy; are we never going to bed? It's no good waiting till it's dark here, you know."
"Have something first," said Sir Philip, seating himself at the saloon table, where his steward had laid out a tasty cold collation. "We've had a good deal of climbing about and rowing; it's taken it out of us a little."
Thus hospitably adjured, they took their places, and managed to dispose of an excellent supper. The meal concluded, Duprèz helped himself to a tiny liqueur glass of Chartreuse, as a wind-up to the exertions of the day, a mild luxury in which the others joined him, with the exception of Macfarlane, who was wont to declare that a "mon without his whusky was nae mon at a'," and who, therefore, persisted in burning up his interior mechanism with alcohol in spite of the doctrines of hygiene, and was now absorbed in the work of mixing his lemon, sugar, hot water, and poison--his usual preparation for a night's rest.
Lorimer, usually conversational, watched him in abstracted silence. Rallied on this morose humor, he rose, shook himself like a retriever, yawned, and sauntered to the piano that occupied a dim corner of the saloon, and began to play with that delicate, subtle touch, which, though it does not always mark the brilliant pianist, distinguishes the true lover of music, to whose ears a rough thump on the instrument, or a false note would be most exquisite agony. Lorimer had no pretense to musical talent; asked, he confessed he could "strum a little," and he seemed to see the evident wonder and admiration he awakened in the minds of many to whom such "strumming" as his was infinitely more delightful than more practiced, finished playing. Just now he seemed undecided,--he commenced a dainty little prelude of Chopin's, then broke suddenly off, and wandered into another strain, wild, pleading, pitiful, and passionate,--a melody so weird and dreamy that even the stolid Macfarlane paused in his toddy-sipping, and Duprèz looked round in some wonderment.