"I have been looking for you, Mr. Forrester," he said. "It is delightful on deck, and I am in just the humour for a chat."
I felt an inclination to tell him that I was not so ready, but before I could give him an answer he had noticed my preoccupation.
"You have something on your mind," he said. "I fear you are not as pleased with my hospitality as I could wish you to be. What is amiss? Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"Nothing, I thank you," I answered a little stiffly. "I have a slight headache and am not much disposed for conversation this evening."
Though the excuse I made was virtually true, I did not tell him that I had only felt it since I had overheard his conversation a few minutes before.
"You must let me cure you," he answered. "I am vain enough to flatter myself I have some knowledge of medicine."
I was beginning to wonder if there was anything of which he was ignorant. At the same time I was so suspicious of him that I had no desire to permit him to practise his arts on me. I accordingly thanked him, but declined his services, on the pretext that my indisposition was too trifling to call for so much trouble.
"As you will," he answered carelessly. "If you are not anxious to be cured, you must, of course, continue to suffer."
So saying, he changed the subject, and for upward of half an hour we wandered in the realm of art, discussing the methods of painters past and present. Upon this subject, as upon every other, I was amazed at the extent and depth of his learning. His taste, I discovered, was cosmopolitan, but if he had any preference it was for the early Tuscan school. We were still debating this point when a dark figure emerged from the companion and came along the deck toward us. Seeing that it was the Fräulein Valerie, I rose from my chair.
"How hot the night is, Mr. Forrester!" she said, as she came up to us. "There is thunder in the air, I am sure, and if I am not mistaken we shall have a storm before morning."