Elsie handed her friend a cup of tea and a plate of toast.
“Naturally. While you were mooning over the lights and tints of the Andes, I kept an eye, both eyes in fact, on our compulsory acquaintances of the next three weeks. To begin with, there’s the captain.”
“He is good-looking, certainly. Somewhat reserved, I fancied.”
“Reserved!” Isobel showed all her fine teeth in a smile. Incidentally, she took a satisfactory bite out of a square of toast. “I’ll soon shake the reserve out of him. He is mine. You will see him play pet dog long before we meet that terrible gale of yours.”
“Isobel, you promised your father—”
“To look after my health during the voyage. Do you think that I intend only to sleep, eat, and read novels all the way to London? Then, indeed, I should be ill. But there is a French Comte on the ship. He is mine, too.”
“You mean to find safety in numbers?”
“Oh, there are others. Of course, I am sure of my little Count. He twisted his mustache with such an air when I skidded past him in the companionway.”
Elsie bent forward to give the chatterer another cup of tea.
“And you promised to read Molière at least two hours daily!” she sighed good-humoredly. Even the most sensible people, and Elsie was very sensible, begin a long voyage with idiotic programs of work to be done.