So Lesbia and Don Gomez were alone under the summer stars, murmuring little bits of Spanish.
'It is the only true way of learning a language,' he said; 'grammars are a delusion.'
It was a very delightful and easy way of learning, at any rate. Lesbia reclined in her bamboo chair, and fanned herself indolently, and watched the shadowy shores of the island, cliff and hill, down and wooded crest, flitting past her like dream-pictures, and her lips slowly shaped the words of that soft lisping language—so simple, so musical—a language made for lovers and for song, one would think. It was wonderful what rapid progress Lesbia made.
She heard a church clock on the island striking, and asked Don Gomez the hour.
'Ten,' he said.
'Ten! Surely it must be later. It was past eight before we began dinner, and we have been sailing for ever so long. Captain, kindly tell me the time,' she called to the skipper, who was lolling over the gunwale near the foremast smoking a meditative pipe.
'Twelve o'clock, my lady.'
'Heavens, can I possibly have been sitting here so long. I should like to stay on deck all night and watch the sailing; but I must really go and take care of poor Lady Kirkbank. I am afraid she is not very well.'
'She had a somewhat distracted air when she went below, but I daresay she will sleep off her troubles. If I were you I should leave her to herself.'
'Impossible! What can have become of Mr. Smithson?'