And then
repetition at sea is somehow not repetition; monotony is in the air, the
mind is flat and everything recurs--the bells, the meals, the stewards'
faces, the romp of children, the walk, the clothes, the very shoes and
buttons of passengers taking their exercise. These things finally grow
at once so circumstantial and so arid that, in comparison, lights on the
personal history of one's companions become a substitute for the friendly
flicker of the lost fireside.
Jasper Nettlepoint sat on my left hand when he was not upstairs seeing
that Miss Mavis had her repast comfortably on deck. His mother's place
would have been next mine had she shown herself, and then that of the
young lady under her care. These companions, in other words, would have
been between us, Jasper marking the limit of the party in that quarter.
Miss Mavis was present at luncheon the first day, but dinner passed
without her coming in, and when it was half over Jasper remarked that he
would go up and look after her.
"Isn't that young lady coming--the one who was here to lunch?" Mrs. Peck
asked of me as he left the saloon.
"Apparently not. My friend tells me she doesn't like the saloon."
"You don't mean to say she's sick, do you?"
"Oh no, not in this weather. But she likes to be above.
Pages:
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58