AGAIN the shores had vanished, this time Europe left behind, and the Orient lifting before them. It was after the sun had plunged beneath the waves, and the distance was illumined with the afterglow; when the Parsee matrons had retired to rest, publicly, upon the saloon floors, and some mysterious figures re-entered to recline on deck in awkward pose, with crooked necks against chairs and skylights, that Paul and Adele also glided forward, past captain and capstan, to their favorite spot. Only the prow of the vessel when it mounted the billows, and a spooky lanthorn aloft, hung in space between them and the constellations. Together they gazed forwards and upwards, listening to the thoughts of the stilly night.
“Fond memories for other days,” remarked Adele.
Paul looked round to discover the object supposed to suggest memories, and then concluded his chair was not quite close enough to hers.
“There it is,” said she, looking toward the constellation of the Southern Cross, resplendent in the heavens. “I never shall forget it.”
“Beautiful, each star a gem, all gems; but——”
“I cannot conceive anything more suggestive or more appropriate in the heavens than that cross,” said Adele.
“I am yet inclined to think that perhaps Orion is still more magnificent.”
“Don’t let’s make comparisons, Paul. I don’t feel in the mood just now; that only spoils our present enjoyment.”
“All right; take things as they are,” and Paul looked again at the constellation.
“See those four stars, Adele; they would make an exquisite pin. Would you like one in that form?”