His spirit flung itself, kneeling, to drink at the pool—his imagination reached out to touch the wings. For the first time in his life he was too deeply enthralled to question himself or her. He gloried in her openly, conspicuously.
On the morning of the fifth day they had their first dispute. They were sitting on the boat deck, aft, watching the wake of the ship as it twisted like an uncertain white serpent. Stefan was sketching her, as he had done already several times when he could get her apart from hovering children—he could not endure being overlooked as he worked. “They chew gum in my ear, and breathe down my neck,” he would explain.
He had almost completed an impression of her head against the sky, with a flying veil lifting above it, when a shadow fell across the canvas, and the voice of McEwan blared out a pleased greeting.
“Weel, here ye are!” exclaimed that mountain of tweed, lowering himself onto a huge iron cleat between which and the bulwarks the two were sitting cross-legged. “I was speerin' where ye'd both be.”
“Good Lord, McEwan, can't you speak English?” exclaimed Byrd, with quick exasperation.
“I hae to speak the New York lingo when I get back there, ye ken,” replied the Scot with imperturbable good humor, “so I like to use a wee bit o' the guid Scotch while I hae the chance.”
“A wee bit!” snorted Stefan, and “Good morning, Mr. McEwan, isn't it beautiful up here?” interposed Miss Elliston, pleasantly.
“It's grand,” replied the Scotchman, “and ye look bonnie i' the sun,” he added simply.
“So Mr. Byrd thinks. You see he has just been painting me,” she answered smilingly, indicating, with a touch of mischief, the drawing that Stefan had hastily slipped between them.
The Scotchman stooped, and, before Stefan could stop him, had the sketch in his hand.