"Oh, thanks!" She thanks him for the lightship as if it were a bunch of roses.
And so they walk, and walk, and walk, and walk—she near the rail, he careering on beside her, hurdling over the foot-rests of the rows of steamer-chairs, and tripping now and then upon the feet extending from them. And sometimes she sits down and shows him magazines which he has seen before, and he leans over very far, and points to things, and she points, too, and his hand touches hers, and he begs pardon, and she excuses him, of course, and laughs—and little locks of hair have touched his cheek. And then they walk again, and then she feeds him chocolates (sent by some poor chap who had to stay behind) with her own rosy finger-tips, and then another light looms up ahead, all golden, and then—How short the voyage has seemed!
Ah, feet that twinkle, cheeks that hold your roses when the world is tottering and green! Ah, youth! Ah, blowing curls! Ah, Delta Kappa Epsilon! Ah, Alpha and Omega! Ah, snapshots, shuffleboard, and sea! Ah, confidences beside a life-boat on the upper deck!... "And I was taken with you from the second that I saw you!"
"And I with you——!"
"Were you—honestly——?"
"Yes, dear——!"
"Dearest——!"
Of course we didn't overhear them; it was the third life-boat on the port side of the ship that overheard, as it has overheard so many other times on other voyages.
As for ourselves, we were not even up there, but were sitting in the lounge, trying, as I recollect, to match passengers with names upon the sailing list, and failing very badly. The woman whom we picked for Mrs. H. Van Rensselaer Somebody (travelling with two maids, two valets, one Pomeranian, one husband, and no children) proves to be a Broadway showgirl; and the one we dubbed a duchess, the proprietor of a Fifth Avenue frock-foundry. Showgirls, milliners, and dressmakers are very often the "smart" people of the ship, and it must be regretfully admitted that duchesses too often fail to mark themselves by that arrogance and overdress which free-born American citizens have a right to expect of them.
It always seems to me they ought to put the peers and persons of interest at the head of the passenger-list; but they do not. The first place on the list of every liner is reserved for Mr. Aaron, precisely as the last place is invariably held for Mr. Zwissler. But though the alphabetical roller irons out our names in rows, it does not iron out our tastes and personalities. We may still be quite as common or exclusive as we wish. Take, for instance, the H. Van Rensselaer Somebodys (of New York, Newport, and Paris). Low down on the list, they are, nevertheless, up high on the ship. They will remain throughout the voyage upon the topmost deck (cabins de luxe A, B, C, and D) in a state of exclusive and elegant sea-sickness. You will not see them. They have "absolutely nothing in common" with any of the other passengers—excepting mal de mer and perchance a wife or husband ex-officio.