"You may be, but you're not," retorted Mrs. Stuart. "Your father, the earl, is still alive, and your elder brother is aggressively healthy. American girls do not deal in futures."
The Englishman took the hint, and, profiting by a temporary indisposition of Count von Hatzfeld, returned to the siege of the fascinating Mrs. Phelps, whose millions were nearly as many and aspirations not quite as high as those of Miss Grace Harmon.
The steamer stayed in port over a week, much to the delight of the passengers, who enjoyed the holiday ashore hugely after having been cooped up so long aboard. The weather continued ideal, and every one took advantage of it to see everything that was worth seeing.
The more enterprising passengers undertook little side excursions up the historic Nile; others roamed through the native bazaars, buying at exorbitant prices a vast quantity of things for which they had no possible use; others drove to the tomb of Mehemet Ali, or to the viceroys' palace, keeping up the sightseeing day and night, until all were so weary that they were glad when the Atlanta once more weighed anchor and proceeded down the Red Sea and so into the Indian Ocean, en route, for Bombay.
CHAPTER IV.
As she sat on the deck, reclining indolently in her steamer-chair, propped up with soft cushions, gazing dreamily on the splendid panorama that unfolded slowly before her—the endless procession of majestic, foam-tipped waves, fleecy clouds drifting lazily in a sky of turquoise blue, the sails of a distant vessel whitened by the sun—Grace felt exuberant with the joy of life.
The latest novel was on her lap, yet she made no attempt to read. Mrs. Stuart, stretched out on a chair alongside, had vainly endeavored to engage her in conversation. But she did not care to talk, and she found it impossible to center her attention on a book, preferring to just lay still, her eyes semi-closed, rocked gently by the steamer's gradual motion, her senses gently thrilled by the sensuous sounds of ship and sea.
The promenade-deck presented the picture of comfort and peace usually to be seen, any fine morning on a liner in mid-ocean—the passengers of both sexes laid out in rows, mummylike, on steamer-chairs, each covered with a rug different from his neighbor's and of bizarre design and color, some reading, some sleeping, some conversing in subdued tones, some sipping cups of bouillon brought on trays by nimble stewards; the decks scrubbed an immaculate white, the brasses highly polished; a neatly uniformed quartermaster standing at a gangway, patiently splicing a rope; two officers on the bridge sweeping the horizon with their glasses or pacing up and down with monotonous precision. With no noises to irritate the ear, a sea voyage has no equal as a rest cure. One heard nothing but the purring of the wind, the gentle flapping of canvas, the splash of the waves, the regular throb of the ship's propeller. Conditions were ideal for day-dreams, and Grace was thinking.
As she idly watched the foaming water rush past the rail she thought how pleasantly fate had planned her life. She might have been born poor and compelled to work in a store for miserable wages, standing on her feet behind a counter ten long and weary hours a day, forbidden to sit down on pain of dismissal, bullied by arrogant employers, insulted by inconsiderate customers. This she knew was the lot of thousands of girls whose pale, tired faces had frequently aroused her sympathy when shopping. She belonged to the small, lucky minority—the ruling class—which by the power of its great wealth is able to enslave nine-tenths of the human race. The world, she ruminated, was full of unfortunates whose only fault was that they were born poor. Her mind reverted to the handsome stoker whom they had dragged on board with such little ceremony the day the ship sailed from New York. She wondered what his life had been to force him to take to such an occupation, and what had become of him. Perhaps at that very moment, while she sat there surrounded by every luxury, he was suffering the agonies of the damned. She reproached herself for not making inquiries after him. When she next saw the captain she would certainly do so.