CHAPTER XLII
A WEAK CONSPIRATOR
At dinner-time Mrs. Watson appeared in a very dainty toilette of black and white, and was installed at the captain’s right hand. She was introduced at once to Mr. Sabin, and proceeded to make herself a very agreeable companion.
“Why, I call this perfectly delightful!” was almost her first exclamation, after a swift glance at Mr. Sabin’s quiet but irreproachable dinner attire. “You can’t imagine how pleased I am to find myself once more in civilised society. I was never so dull in my life as on that poky little yacht.”
“Poky little yacht, indeed!” Mr. Watson interrupted, with a note of annoyance in his tone. “The Mayflower anyway cost me pretty well two hundred thousand dollars, and she’s nearly the largest pleasure yacht afloat.”
“I don’t care if she cost you a million dollars,” Mrs. Watson answered pettishly. “I never want to sail on her again. I prefer this infinitely.”
She laughed at Captain Ackinson, and her husband continued his dinner in silence. Mr. Sabin made a mental note of two things—first, that Mr. Watson did not treat his wife with that consideration which is supposed to be distinctive of American husbands, and secondly, that he drank a good deal of wine without becoming even a shade more amiable. His wife somewhat pointedly drank water, and turning her right shoulder upon her husband, devoted herself to the entertainment of her two companions. At the conclusion of the meal the captain was her abject slave, and Mr. Sabin was quite willing to admit that Mrs. J. B. Watson, whatever her nationality might be, was a very charming woman.
After dinner Mr. Sabin went to his lower state room for an overcoat, and whilst feeling for some cigars, heard voices in the adjoining room, which had been empty up to now.
“Won’t you come and walk with me, James?” he heard Mrs. Watson say. “It is such a nice evening, and I want to go on deck.”
“You can go without me, then,” was the gruff answer. “I’m going to have a cigar in the smoke-room.”