Just then the steward came to tell me the little repast I had ordered was ready in the cabin, so I insisted that they go in.
“Afterward, while we sit on deck, and we gentlemen have the privilege of a good cigar, I promise to a tale unfold that will harrow up your soul and make your blood run cold.”
With that promise, they had to be content.
I knew Hildegarde would not join us; she had said as much, and the steward could serve her later with anything she might wish.
We did not tarry long at the table.
Gustavus Thorpe was the only one who seemed to have any appetite, and nothing ever appeared to disturb his equanimity.
Diana was her old self—marriage with her cousin had not changed her merry flow of spirits an iota, and I wondered whether constant association with so gay a creature would thaw out the icicle any.
Despite his foppish ways, Gustavus was a good fellow; I had seen him dead in earnest a few times, and once when we were sore beset by a mob of fanatics in Tehera, Persia, he did yeoman work with those lily-white hands that ordinarily seemed only fit to twist the ends of his straw-colored mustache, or hold a monocle up to his left optic.
Then we once more went on deck.
“Excuse me for five minutes,” I said.