It was he about whom they had been conversing.
Once upon the deck he took his stand close to the spot where the child was seated, looking back up the bay.
As his face was slightly turned from her, she had a fair chance of scrutinising him, without being detected.
And she made this scrutiny with the ardent curiosity of a child.
He was not alone. By his side was the man she had seen along with him in the carriage.
But she had no eyes for the middle-aged gentleman with huge grizzly moustachios. Only for him, whose hand those girls had been so eager to clasp and kiss.
And she sat scanning him, with strange, wondering eyes, as the Zenaida dove looks upon the shining constrictor. Scanning him from head to foot, heedless of the speeches of Sabina, whose West Indian experience must have made her acquainted with the fascination of the serpent.
It was but the wonder of a child for something that has crossed its track—something new and abnormal—grander than a toy—brighter, even, than a fancy called up by the tales of Aladdin.