“My dear lady,” he said, “I have been suffering the pangs of the neglected, but how dared I break in upon so confidential a tête-à-tête?”
“You have little of the courage of your nation, then,” she answered laughing, “for I gave you many opportunities. But you have been engrossed with your thoughts, and they succeeded at least where I failed—you were distinctly smiling when I came upon you.”
“It was a premonition,” he began, but she raised a little white hand, flashing with rings, to his lips, and he was silent.
“Please don’t think it necessary to talk nonsense to me all the time,” she begged. “Come! I am tired—I want to sit down. Don’t you want to take my chair down by the side of the boat there? I like to watch the lights on the water, and you may talk to me—if you like.”
“Your husband,” he remarked a moment or two later, as he arranged her cushions, “does not care for the evening air?”
“It is sufficient for him,” she answered quietly, “that I prefer it. He will not leave the smoking-room until the lights are put out.”
“In an ordinary way,” he remarked, “that must be dull for you.”
“In an ordinary way, and every way,” she answered in a low tone, “I am always dull. But, after all, I must not weary a stranger with my woes. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Sabin. Are you going to America on pleasure, or have you business there?”
A faint smile flickered across Mr. Sabin’s face. He watched the white ash trembling upon his cigar for a moment before he spoke.
“I can scarcely be said to be going to America on pleasure,” he answered, “nor have I any business there. Let us agree that I am going because it is the one country in the world of any importance which I have never visited.”