So much astonished, indeed, was the worthy man when he realised that his employer had taken matters into her own hands, and chosen a course for herself without consulting him, that he forgot to make his usual objections until it was too late to urge them with any hope of success, and when he did so, the Princess merely referred him to Caerleon.
“Lord Caerleon suggested this trip,” she said, “and if there are any difficulties, he will know how to meet them. He is a gentleman of great experience, my good captain.”
To the surprise of every one Captain Binks surrendered at discretion. It was only fitting that he should take the lead when the other person concerned was a woman and a foreigner; but when there was an English gentleman on board the captain knew his place. The Princess’s mild suggestions he had regarded as eccentricities, to be nipped in the bud for fear of disaster, while he would have welcomed the wildest proposals Caerleon had cared to make as oracular utterances to be obeyed literally for the honour of the British flag.
Under these happy auspices the voyage began, and the greatest harmony prevailed among the passengers on board the Anna Karénina, with one unfortunate exception. Captain Binks might defer humbly to Caerleon, the Princess might honour him with her fullest confidence, but Nadia would not so much as speak a civil word to him. In the circumscribed surroundings of the yacht she could not succeed in ignoring him altogether, but she could and did cavil at everything that he said, and lost no opportunity of making cutting remarks at his expense. The most trying part of it was that, as in the case of a certain historic curse, no one seemed at all affected by what she said, and least of all the person most concerned. When she was cherishing a lively indignation against Caerleon on high moral grounds, and was determined to prove to him how thoroughly she despised and detested his conduct, it was melancholy and even irritating to find that her disapproval had no more effect upon him than rain upon the plumage of the proverbial duck, and that when she had exhausted herself in a tempest of indignation he was willing to return to the charge unruffled as soon as she liked. To tell the truth, her behaviour puzzled him not a little; but he had no mind to lose an hour of Nadia’s society now that it was possible to enjoy it, and submitted with perfect good humour to hearing all his actions criticised and his most innocent remarks railed at.
Matters reached their worst point on the day that the Anna Karénina visited Ithaca. It verged a little upon the commonplace, no doubt, but still it was only natural that Caerleon should fall into the snare of making the inevitable comparison between the characters of Penelope and Ulysses as he stood on deck beside Nadia and watched the island fade from sight, but it was distinctly unfortunate that having said so much, he did not stop there.
“But nowadays,” he went on, “we have changed it all. Penelope goes out into the world, and has her fling, or her Wanderjahr, whatever that may be, and Ulysses stays in Ithaca, and keeps the home together until it pleases her to come back.”
“Did you intend that comparison to apply to me?” demanded Nadia, standing on the defensive at once.
“No, really. It didn’t strike me that there was any resemblance. Do you see one?”
“If you didn’t mean it, why did you say it?”
“I assure you that there was not the slightest personal allusion intended. It was a most innocent remark, made merely for the sake of conversation.”