“I wish the poor dear Admiral were here,” said I. “I should like to ask an abler sailorman than Peterson what to do, with the glass falling as it is, and the holding ground none too good for an anchor. I thought it just as well to come and tell you to prepare for the worst.”
“The worst—what do you mean?” She now advanced three steps upward, so that her shoulders were above the cabin door. Almost mechanically she took my hand.
“The worst just now is nothing worse than an orange with ice, my dear Mrs. Daniver. And I only wanted you to come out on deck with—Miss Emory—and see how blue the sea is.”
She advanced another step, being fond of an iced orange at eleven-thirty. But now she paused. “My niece is resting,” said she, feeling her way.
“No, I am not,” I heard a voice say. Inadvertently I turned and almost perforce glanced down the cabin stair. Helena, in a loose morning wrap of pink, was lying on the couch. She now cast aside the covering of eider-down, and shaking herself once, sprang up the stairs, so that her dark hair appeared under Auntie Lucinda’s own. Slowly that obstacle yielded, and both finally stood on the after deck. The soft wind caught the dark tendrils of Helena’s hair. With one hand she pushed at them. The other caught her loose robe about her softly outlined figure.
“Helena!” remarked her aunt, frowning.
“I want an orange,” remarked Miss Emory, addressing the impartial universe, and looking about for John.
“And shall have it. But,” said I, finding a soft rug at the cabin-top, “I think perhaps you may find the air cool. Allow me.” I handed them chairs, and with a hand that trembled a bit put the soft covering over Helena’s shoulders. She drew it close about her with one hand, and her dark hair flowing about her cheeks, found her orange with the other when John came with his tray.
It was a wondrous morning in early fall. Never had a southern sky been more blue, never the little curling waves saucier on the Gulf. The air was mild, just fresh enough for zest. Around us circled many great white gulls. Across the flats sailed a long slow line of pelicans; and out yonder, tossing up now and then like a black floating blanket, I could see a great raft of wild duck, taking their midday rest in safety. All the world seemed a million miles away. Care did not exist. And—so intimate and swiftly comprehensive is the human soul, especially the more primal soul of woman—already and without words, this young woman seemed to feel the less need of conversation, to recognize the slackening rein of custom. So that a rug and a wrapper—granted always also an aunt—seemed to her not amiss as full equipment for reception of a morning caller.
“A very good orange,” said she at last.