“I shall ask the captain,” pouted Isobel, rising.
The Count twisted his mustache. He knew that both ladies were in the forbidden territory of the bridge when the fracas occurred.
“You, perhaps, are a good sailor?” said he, addressing Elsie.
“I am afraid to boast,” she answered. “I have been in what was called a Number Eight gale, whatever that may mean, and weathered it splendidly, but I am older now.”
“It cannot have been long ago, seeing that you recall it so exactly.”
“It was six years ago, and I was seventeen then,” said Elsie, her eyes wandering to the purple and gold of the far-off mountains.
“But you are English. You are therefore at home on the rolling deep,” murmured Monsieur de Poincilit, confidentially. She did not endeavor to interpret his expressive glance, though he seemed to convey more than he said.
“Not so much at home at sea as you are in my language,” she replied, and she turned to Dr. Christobal, whom she had already known slightly in Valparaiso.
“Are you coming on deck?” she inquired. “I am sure you are a mine of information on Chile, and I want to extract some of the ore while the land is still visible. It is already assuming the semblance of a dream.”
“You are not saying a last farewell to Valparaiso, I hope?” said her elderly companion, as they quitted the salon.