You overhear her on the tender, as you leave the ship next day: "Oh, yes, I love the sea. You can let yourself go and be sure of getting out of everything in a week!" Perhaps you see her in Paris, with new escorts. Perhaps she is on the same boat when you go home again. And if she's not, there's some one else just like her. And also there is some one just like each of the other passengers with whom you left New York.
But for all that, there are differences between the voyage east and the voyage west. Letters of credit have shrunk, wardrobes have increased, and the handiwork of the European bill-poster may be seen on trunks and bags as that of his American confrère is seen at home on ash-barrels and fences. And there's more to talk about when you are going west: Paris dressmakers, European hotels, and the American custom-house. If you talk with Europeans, it is always nice to give them fresh impressions as to what's the matter with their country and with them.
So the gray, dismal voyage passes. At last there comes the morning when you wake to see the sunshine streaming through your port-hole; when, though your clothing and the flowered cretonne curtains of your berth are swinging freely back and forth in time with creaking sounds which chase each other through the bounding ship, you do not care, because your heart is glowing with an unaccustomed happiness.
"Fane brate day, sir," says the steward, in a cheery voice, as he brings in your hotwater can.
THERE IS A HORRIBLE FASCINATION ABOUT A SHIP'S CONCERT SOMETHING HYPNOTIC THAT DRAWS YOU, VERY MUCH AGAINST YOUR WORD AND WILL.
"A little rougher, isn't it?" you return, as if you hoped it was.
"A bit fresher, perhaps, sir," he corrects. "She did put 'er foot in a few 'oles lahst night. See the land, sir?"
Ah, that's why you're so gay!
"Land! Where?"