"Do you not know?" queried Santoris, with a grave smile—"It is easy to guess by merely looking at her!"
My cheeks grew warm and my eyes fell beneath his steadfast gaze. I wondered whether Mr. Harland or Catherine would notice that in his coat he wore a small bunch of the same kind of bright pink bell-heather which was my only 'jewel of adorning' that night. The ice of introductory recognition being broken, we gathered round the saloon table and sat down, while the steward brought wine and other refreshments to offer to our guest. Mr. Harland's former uneasiness and embarrassment seemed now at an end, and he gave himself up to the pleasure of renewing association with one who had known him as a young man, and they began talking easily together of their days at college, of the men they had both been acquainted with, some of whom were dead, some settled abroad and some lost to sight in the vistas of uncertain fate. Catherine took very little part in the conversation, but she listened intently—her colourless eyes were for once bright, and she watched the face of Santoris as one might watch an animated picture. Presently Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, who had been pacing the deck together and smoking, paused near the saloon door. Mr. Harland beckoned them.
"Come in, come in!" he said—"Santoris, this is my physician, Dr. Brayle, who has undertaken to look after me during this trip,"—Santoris bowed—"And this is my secretary, Mr. Swinton, whom I sent over to your yacht just now." Again Santoris bowed. His slight, yet perfectly courteous salutation, was in marked contrast with the careless modern nod or jerk of the head by which the other men barely acknowledged their introduction to him. "He was afraid of his life to go to you"—continued Mr. Harland, with a laugh—"He thought you might be an illusion—or even the devil himself, with those fiery sails!" Mr. Swinton looked sheepish; Santoris smiled. "This fair dreamer of dreams"—here he singled me out for notice—"is the only one of us who has not expressed either surprise or fear at the sight of your vessel or the possible knowledge of yourself, though there was one little incident connected with the pretty bunch of bell-heather she is wearing—why!—you wear the same flower yourself!"
There was a moment's silence. Everyone stared. The blood burned in my veins,—I felt my face crimsoning, yet I knew not why I should be embarrassed or at a loss for words. Santoris came to my relief.
"There's nothing remarkable in that, is there?" he queried, lightly—"Bell-heather is quite common in this part of the world. I shouldn't like to try and count up the number of tourists I've lately seen wearing it!"
"Ah, but you don't know the interest attaching to this particular specimen!" persisted Mr. Harland—"It was given to our little friend by a wild Highland fellow, presumably a native of Mull, the very morning after she had seen your yacht for the first time, and he told her that on the previous night he had brought all of the same kind he could gather to you! Surely you see the connection?"
Santoris shook his head.
"I'm afraid I don't!" he said, smilingly. "Did the 'wild Highland fellow' name me?"
"No—I believe he called you 'the shentleman that owns the yacht.'"
"Oh well!" and Santoris laughed—"There are so many 'shentlemen' that own yachts! He may have got mixed in his customers. In any case, I am glad to have some little thing in common with your friend—if only a bunch of heather!"