Thus I returned to Nice with a feeling that for me, now that Ernest had drifted away from my side to become a placid gambler, and to live careless of my love, life had no further charm. The recollection of the days that followed can never be torn from my memory, my brain, my soul. I smiled, though I was wearing out my heart; I laughed, even though bitter tears were ready to start into my eyes, and I made pretence of being interested in things to which I was at heart supremely indifferent. I courted forgetfulness, but the oblivion of my love would not come. I never knew till then how great was the passion a woman could conceive for a man, or how his memory could continually arise as a ghost from the past to terrify the present.
That night, as we drove from the station to the hotel, Ulrica accidentally touched my hand.
"How cold you are, dear!" she cried in surprise.
"Yes," I answered, shivering.
I was cold; it was the truth. At thought of the man who had forsaken me an icy chill had struck my heart—the chill of unsatisfied love, of desolation, of blank, unutterable despair.
In due course our yachting gowns came home from the dressmaker's—accompanied by terrifying bills, of course—and a few days later we sailed out of Villefranche Harbour on board the Vispera. The party was a well-chosen one, consisting mostly of youngish people, several of whom we knew quite well, and before the second day was over we had all settled down to the usual routine of life on board a yacht. There was no sensation of being cramped up, but on the contrary the decks were broad and spacious, and the cabins perfect nests of luxury. The vessel had been built on the Clyde in accordance with its owner's designs, and it certainly was an Atlantic liner in miniature.
Our plans had been slightly altered, for since the majority of the guests had never been to Algiers, it was resolved to make a run over there, and then coast along Algeria and Tunis, and so on to Alexandria. As we steamed away from Villefranche, the receding panorama of the Littoral, with its olive-covered slopes and great purple snow-capped Alps spread out before us, presenting a perfectly enchanting picture. We all stood grouped on deck watching it slowly sink below the horizon. From the first moment that we went on board, indeed, all was gay, all luxurious; for were we not guests of a man who, although absurdly economical himself, was always lavish when he entertained? Everyone was loud in praise of the magnificent appointments of the vessel; and the dinner at which its owner presided was a meal sparkling with merriment.
I was placed next Lord Eldersfield, a pleasant, middle-aged, grey-eyed man, who had recently left the Army on succeeding to the title. He was, I found, quite an entertaining companion, full of droll stories and clever witticisms; indeed, he shone at once as the chief conversationalist of the table.
"Have I been in Algiers before?" he repeated, in answer to a question from me. "Oh, yes. It's a place where one half the people don't know the other half."
I smiled and wondered. Yet his brief description was, I afterwards discovered, very true. The Arabs and the Europeans live apart, and are like oil and water; they never mix.