"I wonder where Mrs. Steele is?" I say, and turn away to find my friend standing at the stern, with the tears streaming down her handsome, care-worn face, and her great hollow eyes fixed on the fading outlines of the San Franciscan harbour. The Baron has followed, but I turn my back and devote myself to diverting Mrs. Steele.
"We must arrange our stateroom before we are ill," she says presently, in a state of hopeful anticipation, and we retire to No. 49 in the Steamship San Miguel, which all who have taken this journey know to be the best double room on the "crack" steamer of the line. We put up hangers, divide pockets and racks, and prepare for a three weeks' occupancy. Having finished our work, we go to the stern to get a whiff of the stiff breeze blowing from the southeast. The air is sweet and sun-laden, the rhythmic rise and fall of the little steamer seems a bit of caressing pastime between ship and sea—"the whole world is shining and exultant," think I, "and the contagion reaches me."
"Mademoiselle ees fery happy for somedthing," says the Baron's deep, low voice.
"Yes, I'm always happy, but especially just now. Mrs. Steele—Baron de Bach, a friend of Major Sanford."
For half an hour the young Peruvian devotes himself making a good impression on Mrs. Steele. He carries her chair about until a place is discovered sufficiently sheltered from the sun and yet not too cold; he puts all our wraps and rugs on and about "Madame," who watches him with quiet amusement until I ask:
"And now, pray, what am I to do for a rug?"
"You need not a rug; you vill valk dthe deck, vill you not?"
To tell the truth, walking the deck is much more in my line than being swathed and pinioned in a chair, but——
"Yes, my dear, it will do you good—bring me a book, and then you may explore if you like."
So Madame is left with her French romance, and up and down in the sunshine I walk with our new acquaintance at my side.