They talked about old times, particularly the success of Alice's first romance.
“Marriage is often fatal to literary activity. Is your wife to write another book?”
“I think not. We expect an addition—not edition—to our family library soon after our return from England.”
“That settles it. Literature takes a back seat when Maternity becomes its competitor. It is well. Otherwise, how could we keep up our supply of authors?”
The evening before the sailing of the Altonia, a happy party assembled in a private dining room at Quincy's hotel. Toasts were drunk. Alice and Rosa sang and Florence accompanied and played classic selections upon the piano.
“Bon voyage,” cried Leopold, as they separated. “Make notes of something
really new, make a book of up-to-date travels, and our house will
publish it for you, for I'll recommend it no matter how bad it is. We
have to do that often for friends of the firm,—why not for our own?”
A foggy night on the ocean. The barometer ranged low. An upward
glance disclosed a black mist—no sign of moon or stars. A bad night on
land, when trains of cars crash into others laden with humanity—some
dying mercifully without knowing the cause; others cruelly, by slow
cremation, with willing hands nearby powerless to help.
A bad night off shore, when freight-laden craft, deceived by beacon lights, are beached upon the treacherous sand or dashed against jagged rocks. The life-savers, with rocket, and gun and line, and breeches-buoys, try in vain, and, as a last resort, grasp the oars of the life-boat and bring to safety one or two of a crew of ten. Sad hearts in homes when the news comes; but it is only one of the scenes in the drama of life.
A bad night at sea—with a great ocean liner, its iron heart pulsating, plunging through the black waves into dense mountains of fog.
Despite the darkness and chill of the winter night, Quincy, Alice, and Florence were on the deck of the Altonia. Alice shuddered and Quincy drew her wrap more closely about her.
“Shall we go down into the cabin?”