“Love is a passion, whereas interest is—well, interest is merely interest,” said he, with that air of finality which a youthful theorist assumes when he is particularly absurd—and knows it. “Yes, when a woman hates a man thoroughly, and for the best of reasons,—though for that matter she may hate him thoroughly without having any reason for it,—she is nearer to loving him thoroughly than she is to loving a man who merely interests her, however deep may be the interest which he arouses.”
“I’ll give three to one in sovereigns on Somers,” said the man who had originally offered the same odds. He was clearly not amenable to the dictates of reason, the theorist said: he certainly was not amenable to the dictates of a theory, which, however, is not exactly the same thing.
“It’s anybody’s game, just now,” remarked another of the sapient ones.
“Anybody’s except the man’s in whom she has become interested,” said the theorist.
“My dear young man,” said the professional cynic—he had scarcely recovered from a severe attack of mal de mer—“My dear young man, you’re not a very much greater ass than most boys of your age; but you will really not strike people as being much below the average if you only refrain from formulating any theory respecting any woman. The only thing that it is safe to say about a woman—any woman—every woman—is that no human being knows what she will do next.”
“Yes, but we were not talking about what a woman will do next, but what she will do first,” said the poet, who was not easily crushed. “Now I say that she——”
“Oh, do dry up!” shouted a smoking man in a corner, who had just rung for a whisky-and-soda. “I’ve heard more nonsense within the past half-hour than I ever heard during an entire year of my life. There is no sense in arguing, but there is some sense in betting. If you believe in your theory, back it with a sovereign to show that you’re in earnest.”
But the young man’s theory did not run into coin; though in other directions three to one on Teddy Somers was officially reported as offered and taken.
Two days afterwards the layer of the odds tried to hedge. The fact was that the girl had shown such a marked inclination for the society of Jack Norgate in preference to that of Teddy Somers, it seemed as if the former would, to make use of an apt phrase, romp in. But before the steam yacht Bluebottle had crossed the equator the odds were even, as a passenger named Molloy—he was reputed to be of Irish descent—remarked.
It was a pleasant company that had left Gravesend on September 10th, for the six months’ cruise to cheat the winter (see advertisements) in the steam yacht Bluebottle, 3500 tons, Captain Grosvenor, R.N.R., in command. The passengers numbered sixty, and included singularly few disagreeable persons, in spite of the fact that the voyage was one that only people with money and leisure could afford. The vessel was well found, and her commander and officers were the pick of the Company’s fleet, and possessed innumerable resources in the way of deck games. The report found ready credence in the service that Captain Grosvenor had gained his position through being the originator of deck-golf. However this may be, he certainly recognised in the amplest way the responsibilities of the position of trust which he occupied, and he never allowed any duty to interfere with his daily exposition of the splendid possibilities of deck-golf. He had started a golf tournament before the yacht had left the Channel, and he hove to for three days in the Bay of Biscay, when the heavy sea that was running threatened to interfere with the playing off of the tie between Colonel Mydleton and Sir Edwin Everard.