Ethel arose. One point appeared on the horizon and then another.
“It’s the Far East and the Far West,” said Will. “They’ve been carrying bridge iron to Africa for the Cape-to-Cairo railway, and machinery for the Nyanza ferry-boat company. They belong to pa.”
“Really!” said Ethel, looking at the two ships coming into sight along the horizon.
“Boy!” she called, giving him the answer:
Sailing straight for Morgania—danger adds to attraction. Our love to dear old pa!
Ethel, with her sea-glass, could observe the ships saluting the yacht; the flags tumbled at the mizzen.
She felt a thrill of pride. Roman matrons and Cleopatras and Didos, slowly dragged over the sea by their chained galley-slaves, what were they beside her? How much better it was to live nowadays! She felt herself more powerful than they had ever been. Space seemed bringing her the salutes of the East and of the distant West. She remained standing until the ships were lost to sight in the evening mists.
They were cruising along the Italian coast, visiting now one spot and now another. Sometimes there were cool streets bordered with palaces whose windows were without glass. The presence of the yachting-party drew swarms of ragazzi, boys and girls, more importunate than Jersey mosquitos, and harassing them for baiocchi and madonne.
Again, there were islands which from afar were like bouquets of flowers, and from near smelled of cheese and fried fish and garlic. Capri, with the sea like a liquid sky at its feet, lifted its houses along terraces like shelves. It was nothing but a going up and coming down.
“This is a perpendicular country,” was Ethel’s observation. “We are like flies walking along a wall.”