The captain stopped short and squinted around at the sky. As he took in the weather signs, an anxious look came into his face, and he replied gruffly:
"We'll get something to-night, that's sure. The glass is falling rapidly. But I wouldn't say anything about it to the ladies, if I were you."
CHAPTER VII.
Enclosed with sail-cloth for almost its entire length, brilliantly illuminated by hundreds of electric bulbs skilfully clustered in the folds of the artistically draped bunting, with its crowds of dancers, the women with their beautiful gowns, white shoulders and flashing jewels, the ship's officers in full uniform, the men passengers in dress coats—the promenade-deck presented an animated scene of gaiety, light, and color, rendered all the more striking by the sharp contrast with the inky darkness beyond the steamer's rail. The steward's orchestra, screened behind a bank of decorative plants in a railed-off space at the far end of the deck, was playing a dreamy Waldteufel waltz, and the gay, laughing couples, their faces slightly flushed from champagne, whirling gracefully to the strains of the languorous music, made up a picture that appealed sensuously to ear and eye.
Grace was dancing with Count von Hatzfeld. In a décolleté, clinging gown of rose-colored chiffon, cut to set off to full advantage her snow-white shoulders and perfect figure, never had she looked so radiant. Around her slender throat was a string of priceless pearls, a gift from her father, and her hair, dark and lustrous, was arranged in a Grecian Psyche knot with gold bands. She held undisputed sway as belle of the ball, and covetous feminine eyes, ardent masculine eyes, followed her and her lucky partner as they waltzed up and down the deck. Both tall and graceful, they made a striking couple.
The count held her pressed closely to him as they turned slowly to the measured time of the voluptuous music. Her eyes were closed and her head drooped slightly on his shoulder. To him it seemed like a taste of heaven to hold this beautiful creature in such close embrace, and as he inhaled the subtle aroma that emanated from her skin and hair, like some exquisite, unfamiliar perfume, intoxicating in its effect, he wondered how he could have been such an ass to waste so many precious hours on Mrs. Phelps.
But Grace was not thinking of the count. He was not the type of man to interest her. She enjoyed dancing for itself, and she abandoned herself to it without a thought of the man who might happen to be her partner. She loved the graceful, rhythmical movement of the waltz, the rapid whirling round and round which made her heart beat tumultuously, the languorous music which intoxicated. She loved the luxury of costly costumes, the odor of beautiful flowers, the sparkle of diamonds and the careless gaiety and unconsequential chatter of the people of her own set. In short, hers was purely a sensual enjoyment—not materially different to that she aroused in the men—but she did not realize it.
"Ach, this is divine!" whispered the count. "May I have the next waltz?"
At that moment a couple brushed past them.