"What fine eyes!"
"Yes," nodded the old man in spectacles. "Basilida, I imagine, must have looked like that."
"Basilida, the Byzantine?"
"I picture her as a Slav woman."
"They are saying something about Lydia," said the fat man.
"What?" asked the lady. "No doubt some low jokes?"
"About her eyes. They admire——"
The lady made a grimace.
The brasswork on the steamer glistened as, gently and rapidly, she neared the shore. The black walls of the pier came in sight and, beyond them, rising into the sky, a forest of masts. Here and there bright coloured flags hung motionless; dark smoke ascended and seemed to melt in the air; there was a smell of oil and coal dust; the noise of work proceeding in the harbour and the complex bourdon note of a large town reached the ear.
The fat man suddenly burst out laughing.