And then—ah, but one knows in advance what she must say, and one sees most clearly, at length, how it was that she forgot the supper dance entirely.
Here seemed the dawn of a wonderful dream indeed—as though gates were suddenly opening in her life. She responded to Ferdinand King in waves of delirium. Just once she thought of Jerome; and his defects, under the warm spell of beauty which surrounded her now, turned him into almost a caricature. Jerome and Mr. King! She forgot herself and laughed aloud; then, flushing, made her head toss flirtingly and pretended she had been thinking of something else entirely.
Well, in truth, the contrast would be nothing short of striking; for at this stage of his career Ferdinand King was in the finest prime of his incontestible fascination. He was about forty, with rich plumy hair, white at either temple. His face, so arrestingly handsome, was just a little too ruddy, perhaps, to allow any one’s crediting his destiny with never having wooed the heartening cup. His mouth was almost a perfect “cupid’s bow.” A very grand, big, daring, gallant, adventurous sort of man, who appeared altogether superb in evening clothes, and would make a magnificent perpetual best man at fashionable weddings. One at once associated him with gardenias and teacups; yet there was always that indefinable grandness and air of difference about him which made the man seem far indeed from any mere usual type of social flâneur. A gay old dog, though a mature and worldly and white-templed dog, too—which from the beginning of the world, has been the most fascinating type to be encountered.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FOOTBALL OF THE INDIAN OCEAN
I
Captain Utterbourne was involved with a vague but immensely lucrative corporation calling itself the Hyde Packet Company. The business was tramp freighters—vessels of one or two thousand tons, mostly, with business-like mien, which poked nondescript noses into every corner of the navigable world where commerce was to be scented. The Star of Troy was Captain Utterbourne’s own cherished and particular tramp: a sturdy craft with bulging, broad-beamed bow and very decent living quarters—for the Captain was somewhat particular how he lived. How he happened to be a sea captain was a supreme enigma. It baffled everybody. There hadn’t been a grain of salt in the family until now. But that he was a sea captain had to be accepted as a fact. To tell the truth, that was all you could hope to do with Utterbourne—simply accept him. There was no alternative.
The Hyde offices (despite the prosperity of the stockholders) were just one large dusty room, the walls smoky and cluttered with maps; but it was always a lively place. A good many desks were crowded into it, at one of which, in a modest corner, sat Captain Utterbourne. Men mostly in shirt sleeves kept up a busy drone, abetted by intelligent-looking girls deep in dictation and the clatter of typing. The Captain, however, sat unheeding in the midst of everything.
When Ferdinand King arrived he found Utterbourne absorbed in a sheet of paper before him, upon which he was engaged with a pencil. The caller hesitated a moment, half glancing about for an office boy; but almost at once his presence was perceived, and, flinging down his pencil with a tiny gesture, the Captain rose and held out a hand.