Isobel Baring raised her head from the cushions.
"Ventana was a determined wooer, then? What did he do?" she asked.
"He--he pestered me with his attentions. Oh, I should have liked to
flog him with a whip!"
"He was always that sort of person--too serious," and the head dropped
again.
The steward returned. He was a half-caste; his English was to the
point.
"De captin say he busy, he no come," was his message.
Elsie's display of irritation vanished in a merry laugh. Isobel
bounced up from the depths of the chair; her dark eyes blazed
wrathfully.
"Tell him--" she began.
Then she mastered her annoyance sufficiently to ascertain what it was
that Captain Courtenay had actually said, and she received a courteous
explanation in Spanish that the commander could not leave the
chart-house until the Kansas had rounded the low-lying, red-hued Cape
Caraumilla, which still barred the ship's path to the south--the first
stage of the long voyage from Valparaiso to London.
But pertinacity was a marked trait of the Baring family; otherwise,
Isobel's father, a bluff, church-warden type of man, would not have won
his way to the chief place in the firm of Baring, Thompson, Miguel &
Co., Mining and Export Agents, the leading house in Chile's principal
port. Notwithstanding Elsie's previous outburst, the steward was sent
back to ask if the ladies might visit the bridge later. Meanwhile,
would Captain Courtenay like a cup of tea? All things considered,
there was only one possible answer; Captain Courtenay would be charmed
if they favored him with both the tea and their company.
"I thought so," cried Isobel, triumphantly. "Come on, Elsie! Let us
climb the ladder of conquest. The steward will bring the tea-things.
The chart-house is just splendid. It will provide a refuge when the
Count becomes too pressing."
There was a tightening of Elsie's lips to which Isobel paid no heed.
The imminent protest was left unspoken, for Courtenay's voice came to
them: "Please hold on by the rail. If a foot were to slip on one of those
brass treads the remainder of the day would be a compound of tears and
sticking-plaster."
"I think you said 'reserved,'" whispered Isobel to her companion with a
wicked little laugh. To Courtenay, peering through a hatch in the
hurricane deck, she cried: "Is the brass rail more dependable than you, captain?"
"It will serve your present purpose, Miss Baring," said he, not taking
the hint.
Gathering her skirts daintily in her left hand, Isobel tripped up the
steep stairs. Elsie followed. Courtenay, who had the manner and
semblance of the first lieutenant of a warship, stood outside a haven
of plate glass, shining mahogany, and white paint. The woodwork of the
deck was scrubbed until it had the color of new bread. An officer
paced the bridge; a sailor, within the chart-house, held the small
wheel of the steam steering-gear. Somewhat to Isobel's surprise,
neither man seemed to be aware of her presence.