"But only yesterday he told me that he intended to sail home in her to Portsmouth," I said.
"My dear, the old fellow is as full of plans as he is of sovereigns, and is a most vague person regarding his future movements. Somehow, I can't tell in what manner, to me he seems to have changed wonderfully during the past few days."
"Do you think so?" I asked quickly. It was strange that she should have detected a difference in his manner.
"Yes. I sat next to him at dinner to-night, and couldn't help noticing how nervous and queer he seemed. Perhaps it's one of those penalties of wealth which people are so fond of telling us about. If I had wealth I wouldn't heed the so-called penalties, would you, dear? The possession of only another five hundred a year would make me one of the happiest women in the world."
"That's the universal cry," I laughed. "Why aren't you more original, Ulrica?"
"Because it's such bad form to be original nowadays, when everything has been said before. There is no further smartness in conversation. A woman can only shine by the aid of Paquin, or some other Vendome artist."
And so she chattered on merrily, until at length her eye caught my little travelling clock, when she saw that it was already an hour past midnight. The tramping of men on deck had ceased, and all had grown quiet, save for a low pumping sound from the engine-room.
"Well, dear," she said, "I suppose it's time to turn in. We all go over to Pisa to-morrow to see the sights—Leaning Tower, Cathedral, and that sort of thing. I've seen them all before, and so have you."
I smiled. When a child, I had stood beneath the campanile, marvelling at what Suor Angelica used to say was one of the seven wonders of the world; had knelt in reverence in the Duomo, and wandered in amazement through the old marble-built Campo Santo—how many years ago, I did not care to reflect.
"You will go with them?" I said.