"You say that as though there were many kinds of things that did, though," observed Batiscombe, looking at her. It was a natural remark, without any intention.
"Dear me, yes!" exclaimed Leonora. "Life is not all roses, you know." She therewith assumed a thoughtful expression and looked away.
"I should not have supposed there were many thorns in your path, Marchesa. Would it be indiscreet to inquire of what nature they may be?"
Leonora was silent, and put up her glass to examine the proceedings on shore.
Batiscombe, who had come out that day with the sworn determination not to say or do anything to increase the interest he felt in the Marchesa, found himself wondering whether she were unhappy. The first and most natural conclusion was that she had been married to Marcantonio by designing parents, and that she did not care for him. Society said it had been a love-match, but what will society not say? "Poor thing," he thought, "I suppose she is miserable!"
"Forgive me," he said, in a low voice. "I did not know you were in earnest."
Leonora blushed faintly and glanced quickly at him. He had the faculty of saying little things to women that attracted their attention.
"What lots of poetry one might make about a launch," he said laughing,—for it was necessary to change the subject,—"ship—dip; ocean—motion; keel—feel; the rhymes are perfectly endless."
"Yes," said Leonora; "you might make a sonnet on the spot. Besides, there is a great deal of sentiment about the launching of a great man-of-war. The voyage of life—and that sort of thing—don't you know? How hot it is!"
"I will have another awning up in a minute," and he directed the sailors, helping to do the work himself. He stood upon the gunwale to do it.