She stopped beside him for a moment and observed the Italian workers. He did not once look up.
“Do you know how long we stay in Naples?” she asked.
Shipboard etiquette ignores introductions.
“We sail at nine to-night, the Captain says.” He turned his head slightly and smiled as if he had really known her. She lounged over the rail and helped him watch the workers. From the dock below this pair looked like familiar companions.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed suddenly. “What time is it now?”
“Eight A.M.” He seem amused in a superior way.
“All day in this hot dirty place!” she exclaimed again.
“It is warm,” he admitted, “but not unpleasantly so. Dirty? Ye-es, on the wharf; but look back of you.” He hardly moved from his lounging posture. “Behold! The Bay of Naples. ‘See Naples and die’; that phrase is sure to be in your guide-book. There’s a lot of other poetry about it, too: ‘The blue Bay of Naples, cerulean blue——’”
“But it isn’t blue,” she objected. “It’s dirty grey and,”—she looked directly below for an instant—“and it’s oily—greasy, too.”
“Oh, yes, it is blue,” he contradicted firmly; “deep cerulean blue, the blue of sapphire shading off to mother-of-pearl.” As he talked he half turned towards her. He was tall—she was not; his face was bronzed, and furrowed with lines—hers was not; so without offence he could assume a schoolmasterly air of genial superiority.