“Are the sunsets here very fine?” said Helen, languidly, as she lay back in a cane chair listlessly gazing through her half-closed eyes at the glittering water that foamed astern, ever widening away from the churning of the huge propeller of the ship.
“Very grand some of them, but nothing to those we shall show you in the water-charged atmosphere close to the equator. Ah, Miss Stuart, come here and stop to see the sunset. You grieve me, my child,” he added, smiling, and showing his white teeth.
“Grieve you, Mr Harley, why?” said Grey, smiling.
“Because I feel as if I were partner in the crime of taking you out to Sindang to turn that fair complexion of yours brown.”
“Grey Stuart is very careless about such things,” said Helen, with languid pettishness. “How insufferably hot it is!”
“Well,” said Mr Harley, laughing, “you are almost queen here already, Miss Perowne; everyone seems to constitute himself your slave. Shall we arm ourselves with punkahs, and waft sweet southern gales to your fair cheeks?”
“Here! Hi, Harley!” cried the brisk voice of Dr Bolter from the forward part of the vessel.
“’Tis the voice of the male turtle-dove,” said Mr Harley, laughing. “He is separated from his mate. Have I your permission to go, fair queen?”
Helen’s eyes opened widely for a moment, and she darted an angry look at the speaker before turning away with an imperious gesture, when, with a meaning smile upon his lip, Neil Harley, Her Britannic Majesty’s Political Resident at Sindang, walked forward.
“That man irritates me,” said Helen, in a low, angry voice. “I began by disliking him; I declare I hate him now!”