And Isobel sighed, dropped her long eyelashes, and examined the toe of a smart brown shoe with a wistful resignation. Courtenay was politely incredulous, but the arrival of the steward with the replenished tea-tray created a diversion.
“Do let me pour your tea,” cried Isobel. “I make lovely tea, don’t I, Elsie?”
Elsie laughed so cheerfully that Isobel flashed an interrogatory glance at her. Certainly, the notion of Isobel Baring claiming the domestic virtues was amusing. But Elsie answered at once:
“I know few things that you cannot do admirably, dear.”
So Isobel filled a cup, asked if Captain Courtenay took milk and sugar, and said demurely, with a sip of a spoonful:
“Let me see if I can guess your tastes.”
Elsie’s blue eyes assumed a deeper shade. Men might like that kind of thing, but she felt that her face and neck would be poppy red in another moment. Thus far she had not addressed a word to Courtenay, though by his manner he had included her in the conversation. She now resolved to break in on the attack which Isobel was beginning with the adroitness of a skilled campaigner. And she, too, could use her eyes to advantage when she chose.
“What a curious library you have, Captain Courtenay,” she said, looking, not at him, but at a row of books fitting closely into a small case over the writing-table. Instantly the sailor was interested.
“Why ‘curious,’ Miss Maxwell?” he asked.
“First, in their assortment; secondly, in the similarity of their binding. I have never before seen the Bible, Walt Whitman, and Dumas in covers exactly alike.”