"What would you do?" she asked.
"I should write a sonnet to your eyebrows this morning, is it not?"
"Mercy, no! That kind of poetry has long been passé."
"Helas!" mournfully.
It was a beautiful morning, a sharp blue sky and a sea of running silver; warm, too, for they were bearing away into the southern seas now. Every one had sea-legs by this time, and the larder dwindled in a respectable manner.
Fitzgerald viewed his case dispassionately. But what to do? A thousand times he had argued out the question, with a single result, that he was a fool for his pains. He became possessed with sudden inexplicable longings for land. He could not get away from this yacht; on land there would have been a hundred straight lines to the woods and the fisherman's philosophy. Things were going directly to one end, and presently he would have no more power to stem the words. At least one thing was certain, the admiral could not drop him overboard.
"The villain?"
He was moved suddenly out of his dream, for the object of it stood smiling at his side. A wisp of hair was blowing across her eyes and she was endeavoring to adjust it under her cap.
"The villain?" making a fine effort to remarshal his thoughts.
"Yes. We were talking about him last night. Where did you leave him?"