"Of course. That is, no doubt, why one objects to it. Well, since it's difficult to keep the personal equation out, I suppose dancing and sailing about these islands on board the Estremedura is rather a wasteful life. Painting little pictures probably comes to much the same thing, too, though there are people who seem to take art seriously."
Jacinta looked at him steadily. "When one has really an artistic talent it is different," she said.
Austin, who hoped she did not notice that he winced, sat silent a space, gazing out across the glittering sea, and it was not altogether a coincidence that his eyes were turned eastwards towards Africa, where Jefferson was toiling in the fever swamps. He wondered if Jacinta knew his thoughts had also turned in that direction somewhat frequently of late.
"Well," he said, "I suppose it is. Some of those pictures must be pretty, or the tourists wouldn't buy them, but that doesn't go very far, after all." He stopped a moment, and then went on with a little wry smile. "No doubt some patients require drastic treatment, and there are cases where it is necessary to use the knife."
Jacinta rose, and, dropping her fan to her side, gravely met his gaze.
"If it wasn't, it would probably not be tried," she said. "One could fancy that it was, now and then, a little painful to the surgeon."
Austin walked with her to the ladder, and stopped a moment at the head of it. "Well," he said, "one has to remember that all men are not built on the same model, and, what is more to the purpose, they haven't all the same opportunities. No doubt the latter fact is fortunate for some of them, since they would probably make a deplorable mess of things if they undertook a big enterprise."
"Ah!" said Jacinta, who remembered it afterwards, "one never knows when the opportunities may present themselves."
She went down the ladder, and it was about an hour later when a boat slid alongside, and a man came up, asking for Austin. The latter, who sat on the bridge-deck amidst a group of Farquhar's guests, looked at him curiously when he handed him an envelope. His garments had evidently not been made for him, and there were stains of grease and soot on his coarse serge jacket, while the coal dust had not been wholly washed from his face. It was not difficult to recognise him as a steamer's fireman.
"You're Mr. Austin?" he said.