‘So I may presume,’ said I, ‘that she finds herself pretty well this morning? And my cousin, steward?’
‘I was to tell you, sir,’ he answered, ‘that Sir Wilfrid will not come to table.’
‘How is he?’
‘He didn’t complain, sir; just said, “I’ll breakfast in my cabin this morning”!’
‘All right,’ said I, and the man retired.
There was nothing unusual in Wilfrid breakfasting in his cabin. I was glad to hear that he did not complain; as a rule he was very candid if in suffering; owned freely to whatever troubled him however trifling, and made much of it.
In a few minutes Miss Laura came from her berth. Her face had the delicacy of look that in her at all events I took to express a troubled or sleepless night. Her eyelids were a little heavy; her lips wanted their dewy freshness of hue. Yet no woman, I thought, could ever show sweeter than she as she advanced and took my hand smiling up at me and subtly incensing the atmosphere with a flower-like fragrance that had nothing whatever to do with the scent-bottle. I told her that Wilfrid would not breakfast with us, and we seated ourselves.
‘He is well, I hope?’
‘Oh, I should think so, if I may judge from what the steward tells me. I’ll look in upon him after breakfast. Have you seen Lady Monson this morning?’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘I sent my maid with a message and the reply was that Lady Monson wishes to be alone.’