"I think I shall enjoy this trip," purred Isobel Baring, nestling
comfortably among the cushions of her deck chair. A steward was
arranging tea for two at a small table. The Kansas, with placid hum
of engines, was speeding evenly through an azure sea.
"I agree with that opinion most heartily, though, to be sure, so much
depends on the weather," replied her friend, Elsie Maxwell, rising to
pour out the tea. Already the brisk sea-breeze had kissed the Chilean
pallor from Elsie's face, which had regained its English peach-bloom.
Isobel Baring's complexion was tinged with the warmth of a pomegranate.
At sea, even in the blue Pacific, she carried with her the suggestion
of a tropical garden.
"I never gave a thought to the weather," purred Isobel again, as she
subsided more deeply into the cushions.
"Let us hope such a blissful state of mind may be justified. But you
know, dear, we may run into a dreadful gale before we reach the
Straits."
Isobel laughed.
"All the better!" she cried. "People tell me I am a most fascinating
invalid. I look like a creamy orchid. And what luck to have a chum so
disinterested as you where a lot of nice men are concerned! What have
I done to deserve it? Because you are really charming, you know."
"Does that mean that you have already discovered a lot of nice men on
board?"
Elsie handed her friend a cup of tea and a plate of toast.
"Naturally. While you were mooning over the lights and tints of the
Andes, I kept an eye, both eyes in fact, on our compulsory
acquaintances of the next three weeks. To begin with, there's the
captain."
"He is good-looking, certainly. Somewhat reserved, I fancied."
"Reserved!" Isobel showed all her fine teeth in a smile.
Incidentally, she took a satisfactory bite out of a square of toast.
"I 'll soon shake the reserve out of him. He is mine. You will see
him play pet dog long before we meet that terrible gale of yours."
"Isobel, you promised your father--"
"To look after my health during the voyage. Do you think that I intend
only to sleep, eat, and read novels all the way to London? Then,
indeed, I should be ill. But there is a French Comte on the ship. He
is mine, too."
"You mean to find safety in numbers?"
"Oh, there are others. Of course, I am sure of my little Count. He
twisted his mustache with such an air when I skidded past him in the
companionway."