“Well, if she feels that way....” He muttered the opening phrases of many very vigorous statements designed to cover his feelings; but for the most part they were destined to an eternal suspension. “I guess I’m not quite so hopeless....” Well, the thing had happened, and there was an end of it. There would be no longer any special reason why he should vividly picture her in his mind when they were apart; yet, curiously enough, now their ways were sundered, he found himself picturing her with singular vividness. “A fine thing,” he thought, “to keep at a fellow about!” Perhaps there was more to be got out of life, but had she given any hint as to how it was to be managed? She had not! He bolstered his outraged ego the whole of the way.
Arrived at his own house, Jerome went at once to his room. He washed in a desultory manner, then proceeded to plaster his hair down very slick, even dipping the brush into the water pitcher to facilitate the process. His evening toilet completed, the young man sat down in a straight chair, tipped himself rakishly back against the wall, knocked the caked ashes out of his jaunty little pipe, filled it with tobacco from a tumbler supposed to hold his toothbrush, and began pulling away in a comfortable, dignified fashion. He flattered himself he didn’t exactly resemble the traditional conception of a man who has just passed through the ordeal of a broken engagement, and tried to persuade himself that Stella would be the heavier loser of the two.
II
The next day Mr. Whitley, the junior partner of Oaks, Ferguson & Whitley’s, was waiting on a couple of old regulars—joking with them in his undignified yet senile fashion, and laughing explosively as he wrapped some small purchases. Jerome presently became aware of the entry of another customer, and not unwillingly climbed down from the stool of his destiny.
The customer was peering into one of the dusty show-cases: a large man, about forty-five, perhaps, dressed in a Palm Beach suit and wide-brimmed hat. Both hands—and they lay conspicuously outspread on the showcase before him, almost as though they were in reality goods whose purchase he was considering—were amazingly encrusted with precious stones. On one finger alone were two massive rings set with diamonds and rubies of almost incredible magnitude, while on another finger was a curious constellation of tiny stones set into a golden cube which stood well out from the band itself. The man was, from head to foot, an exotic—with Italian blood, probably, though above all a cosmopolitan—and seemed so full of contradictions that at first one found it simply impossible to make him out at all; yet regarding his amazing picturesqueness there could, at least, be no mistake. He had about him a gorgeous flavour of romance and mystery.
The customer began with some hesitation: “I wonder—could you give me any sort of idea what it would take to feed say about thirty-five people and a small crew during a voyage to Honolulu?”
Jerome stared. What else could he do? But the customer smiled and tried to be more coherent.
“The fact is,” he said, in a very friendly, confidential, optimistic manner, “I’m altogether a novice at this sort of thing, and just dropped in because I saw up over the door that you deal in ship supplies. I thought I might as well stop and enquire, even though I haven’t had time yet to draw up any lists or such things. Lord, isn’t it a busy life?”
His eyes—large and black and enthusiastic—swam with a vague yet enkindling glow as he gazed about. “You see,” he explained, in a voice peculiarly booming and rich, “I’ve just rented a schooner—taken it for a year—yes, a fine little fourmaster, with a brand new coat of paint!”