On the promenade and hurricane decks a couple of early risers are taking their constitutionals. On the bridge strides the fresh-looking skipper, and a neat second officer in glaring white is adjusting his sextant as he awaits the sun’s coming. A few deckhands and sailors are holystoning the decks and adjusting the striped awnings.
Upon the free and lofty upper structure in the broad space between the cabins and the captain’s quarters some privileged travelers, to judge by the important bearing of the men and the well-groomed appearance of the ladies, are languidly settling themselves down. They show scarce a sign of sleepless tossing in heated berths. One of these, a tall, lean man in Pongee, cap and scarf to match, bearing carefully trimmed little chops below the grayish hair, is Sir Balingbroke-Smith, Under-Secretary of the Colonies. He is holding forth to his daughter Muriel on the history of the islands which are just sinking below the southern horizon.
Miss Muriel endeavors to show some interest, appearing to listen with careful attention; but her eyes are wandering around the deck. She is waiting for the appearance of the stranger who had come on board the evening before and whom the Captain had discussed at dinner. The new passenger had declined coming to table as he needed “civilizing.” So Captain Pollard had put it; but he was a gentleman, though an American, who had spent the last eighteen months in the wilds of the Soudan and the mountains of Somali, instead of lounging at Shepard’s Hotel at Cairo or at the Casino at Nice. He was young, rich, independent and “as fine a chap as ever came out of Eton or Oxford, my lord.”
“Muriel seems tired or sleepy, or both,” said her aunt and duenna, the Hon. Mrs. Fitzhugh, the wife of an Indian officer. The good lady was returning to winter in London to recuperate after a trying season with her husband at Lahore, and incidentally was acting as chaperon to Miss Muriel. The ladies of the group duly agreed. Who would dare to differ from her? But all are casting side glances in the direction in which Miss Muriel insists on keeping her pretty face.
The Rev. Mr. Akley, in sober gray, with solemn face and pained, bloodshot eyes, is gazing intently at a group of prostrated orientals, a martyr to faith and duty. The latter, however, do not seem to mind the sad, pained expression in the eyes of the churchman. But even the countenance of the reverend gentleman is somewhat askew from the vertical--since he also is partaking in the general interest. Will this much-talked-of young man ever make his appearance?