It is strange what trivialities will interest the idle minds of those who dawdle about in the library of an ocean steamer.
Jane would occasionally come and stand by me, saying wisely, “Are you still making your itinnery?”
When I said yes, she sighed and smiled and ran away, being desirous not to bother.
The first morning I engaged in this work, I read interestedly of picture-galleries and architectural specialties. That afternoon my interest waned, and I studied time-tables and statistical information. The next morning I grew sick of the whole performance and, bundling the books and maps away, I went out to my deck-chair, and idled away the hours in waking dreams that never were on sea or land.
That afternoon the Bold-Faced Jig approached me.
“It’s all over,” I said. “I’ve capitulated. I make no plans while I’m on this blessed ocean. It’s wicked to do anything at all but to do nothing.”
“And don’t you want my advice?” she asked, laughing still.
“I don’t care,” I answered. “You can voice your advice if you choose. I sha’n’t listen to it, much less follow it.”
Her girlish laughter rang out again. “That was my advice,” she said. “I was going to tell you not to plan any trip while you are at sea. Just enjoy the days as they come and go; don’t count them; don’t do anything at all but just be.
“I’m not through yet,” she went on. “Don’t write any letters or read any books. Don’t study human nature, and of all things don’t voluntarily make acquaintances. If they happen along, as I did, chat a bit if you choose, and when they pass on, forget them.”