"Why do you look so sad?" she demanded. "Mon Dieu! To-morrow at Ismir. What happiness!"
"For you," he added in a low voice.
"And for you," she twittered in his ear and patting his hand. "I see the plan of Monsieur Dainopoulos now. We shall have good fortune."
There was a faint tap at the door.
"Supper, Madama," said the young Jew, making a low bow, and they went up.
Mr. Spokesly, sitting on the engineer's settee an hour later and discussing the matter cautiously with that person, was not so sure of the good fortune.
"What can we do?" he asked, and the engineer, who was of a peaceful disposition and perfectly satisfied so long as he got his pay, said:
"You can't do nothing in this fog. He's the captain."
"We may hit something," said Mr. Spokesly, who was talking more for comfort than for enlightenment.
"Why, yes, we may do that. Do it anywhere, come to that. Where do you think we are now, Mister Mate?"