“Not yet. There is nothing enjoyable about this Cimmerian gloom, and yet it has its attractions. Florence, what is it that Tom Hood wrote about London fog?”
“I only remember one line, and I'm not sure I can quote that correctly. I think it reads: 'No sun, no moon,' I should add 'no stars, no proper time of day.'”
During the two days since leaving New York, Florence had been a creature of moods: sad, when she brooded over her trouble due, she felt sure, to another's act; light-hearted when she thought of the prospect of again meeting Reginald and having him prove his innocence.
She had been spared newspaper publicity. Not for ten times the sum he had lost would the Hon. Nathaniel have had his daughter's name in the public prints. He was a lawyer, but it was his business to get other people out of trouble, and not to get his own family into it—which shows that great lawyers are not exempt from that very common human frailty, selfishness.
Sounds of applause were borne to their ears. “Let us go in,” said Florence, “some one has been singing.”
In the main saloon, all was merriment. Each passenger had faith in Capt. Robert Haskins, who had crossed the Atlantic hundreds of times. The Altonia belonged to a lucky line, the luck that follows careful foresight as regards every detail, the luck that brings safety and success from constant vigilance.
In the first cabin were more than two hundred souls—young and old, maids and matrons, young and middle-aged men, and a few beyond the allotted three score years and ten.
Mlle. Carenta, a member of a troupe of grand opera singers, whom many had heard during the company's engagement in New York, arose from the piano amid cries of “bravo,” for her superb vocalism. She had sung Gounod's Ave Maria.
“How sweetly she sang,” said Alice, as she touched her husband's arm to more fully draw his attention from the beautiful vocalist. “Don't you think so, Quincy?”
“Divine,” was the reply. “One can almost fancy the doors of Heaven are open.”