“Perhaps I can help mademoiselle,” says he. “Would she like perhaps a grapefruit?”
She would and she’d also like oatmeal and eggs and coffee. So he steered her straight through the meal with almost painful politeness, but in the intervals when he wasn’t using his hands as an aid to gallant discourse, he was manicuring himself with a fork.
The majority of the ocean immediately left its usual haunts and came indoors
This afternoon they drug me into a bridge game. My partner was our congressman’s secretary. Our opponents were a Standard Oil official and a vice-consul bound for Italy. My partner’s middle name was Bid and Mr. Oil’s was Double. And I was too shy to object when they said we’d play for a cent a point.
At the hour of going to press, Standard Oil had practically all the money in the world. And my partner has learned that a holding of five clubs doesn’t demand a bid of the same amount.
Sunday, August 12.
The boat seems to be well supplied with the necessities of life, such as cocktails and cards and chips, but it is next to impossible to obtain luxuries like matches, ice-water and soap.
Yale and Harvard both knew enough to bring their own soap, but my previous ocean experiences were mostly with the Old Fall River Line, on which there wasn’t time to wash. Neither Yale nor Harvard ever takes a hint. And “Apportez-moi du savon, s’il vous plaît,” to the cabin steward is just as ineffectual.
All good people attended service this morning, and some bad ones played poker this afternoon.