The talk now largely centered about the project of the new Mediterranean experiment. But Jerome felt that although the Captain might appear for a moment wholly engrossed in it, even this venture, important and daring, even, as it might seem, was but one venture out of a score, perhaps, with which his brilliant mind was ever busy.
The evenings were rich and unforgettable, with the Star of Troy slipping so steadily on through tropic seas and the little white cabin, with the map of the world covering all one wall, so cheerful and bright. They would gather here after dinner: Utterbourne, Elsa, Jerome, and usually one or two of Utterbourne’s men—Sutherland or Sargeant or maybe Rutherford, keen-faced and clever, playing their parts in the mysterious game about which no mind save one could really know all. The China boy, smiling with his usual affectionate understanding (though sometimes, too, with that more cryptic smile which belongs to the unsearchable East) would mix them suave, delicious drinks. And they would smoke and talk of life in many climes and under all sorts of conditions. Captain Utterbourne, whatever the theme, could hold them in a thrall, when it pleased him. Sometimes he would elect silence. But when he began to speak, the air took on a subtle sparkle, though he was never guilty of mere wit.
And then, perhaps, the talk would turn to business—as it generally did, sooner or later, with so much still in the air which must be reduced to concreteness. And Elsa would grow bored and pick up a novel, which she would read, or pretend to read, with an air of languid absorption; or she would leave them and go out alone on deck in the lofty dark to dream of nobody knew what—dreams of her own, as profoundly hidden away in the unassailable depths of her consciousness as were the secret thoughts and broodings of the Captain himself.
Jerome had many talks with Elsa, too, for the days were long at sea, and each seemed glad of the other’s company. It was upon these occasions that Jerome most surprised himself, for they stirred in him a new and very pleasurable sense of poise, which he had never even dreamed of acquiring in the days of his futile groping. He felt himself a match for Elsa—not, however, that she didn’t frequently baffle him with her drooping eyes and coolly static expression.
He looked forward to their talks together; and in her own way, so did Elsa, too. Yes, perhaps in her own way Elsa looked forward to them with even more eagerness than Jerome himself. He interested her—particularly, she would tell herself, in the light of what his past had been. She remembered (and the picture kept rising in her mind) how she had come upon him that afternoon in the street with Stella, and how he had merely mumbled something and gone away. But she remembered, too, how his shoulders had straightened, as though unconsciously; and how she had felt, in her somewhat psychic manner, that it would be the beginning of better things for him. Then she had forgotten about him, and here he was again. She had not guessed that his progress would carry him so far in one short year.
Elsa discreetly (perhaps selfishly, too, without altogether realizing it) refrained from any mention of Stella at first, and Jerome never mentioned her, either. Yet, Stella was sometimes in their minds as they talked. And one evening she burst like a bomb on their ears. It was Utterbourne who spoke of her. The Star of Troy was bound for San Francisco, but there were to be stops: the Captain had already announced something a little vague about picking up cargo somewhere in the Chagos archipelago. Bluntly, at length, he turned to Elsa and said:
“By the way, we’re likely to run into one of your old friends.”
“Yes, dad?”
“She married Ferdinand King and they came out here to settle. Or have I told you all this before?”
“No, dad. It’s quite fresh news—except her marriage. If you remember, I was the maid of honour. Otherwise you’ve not repeated yourself,” replied his daughter dryly.