We had already been a month cruising—and a month in the Mediterranean in spring is delightful—when one night an incident occurred which was both mysterious and disconcerting. We were on our way from Constantinople, and in the first dog-watch had sighted one of the rocky headlands of Corsica. That evening dinner had been followed by an impromptu dance, which had proved a most successful affair. The men were mostly dancers, except Lord Stoneborough, who was inclined to obesity, and what with the piano and a couple of violins, played by a pair of rather insipid sisters, the dance was quite a jolly one. We persuaded even old Mr. Keppel to dance, and although his was a not very graceful feat, nevertheless his participation in our fun put everyone in an exceedingly good humour.
Of course, the month had not passed without the usual gossip and tittle-tattle inseparable from a yachting cruise. On board a yacht people quickly become inventive, and the most astounding fictions about one's neighbours are whispered behind fans and books. I had heard whispers regarding Ulrica and Gerald Keppel. Rumour had it that the old gentleman had actually given his consent to their marriage, and as soon as they returned to England the engagement would be announced.
Certain of the guests, with an air of extreme confidence, took me aside, and questioned me regarding it; but I merely responded that I knew nothing, and greatly doubted the accuracy of the rumour. More than once that evening I had been asked whether it were true, and so persistent seemed the rumour that I took Ulrica into my cabin, and asked her point-blank.
"My dear!" she cried, "have you really taken leave of your senses? How absurd! Of course, there's nothing whatever between Gerald and myself. He is amusing—that's all."
"You might do worse than marry him," I laughed. "Remember, you've known him a long time—four years, isn't it?"
"Marry him? Never! Go and tell these prying persons, whoever they are, that when I'm engaged I'll put a paragraph in the papers all in good time."
"But don't you think, Ulrica," I suggested—"don't you think that if such is the case, Gerald is rather too much in your society?"
"I can't help him hanging around me, poor boy," she laughed. "I can't be rude to him."
"Of course not, but you might possibly give him a hint."
"Ah! now, my dear Carmela," she cried impatiently, "you want to lecture me, eh? You know how I hate being lectured. Let's end the discussion before we become bad friends."