Nest Builder | Page 9

the deck in their midst with one quick and easy movement, curling
her feet under her. There proceeded an absurd game, involving a slipper
and much squealing, whose intricacies she directed with unruffled ease.
Suddenly the wind puffed the hat of one of the small boys from his
head, carrying it high above their reach. In an instant the girl was up,
springing to her feet unaided by hand or knee. Reaching out, she caught
the hat as it descended slantingly over the bulwarks, and was down
again before the child's clutching hands had left his head.
A mother, none other than the prominently busted lady of Stefan's table,
blew forward with admiring cries of gratitude. Other matrons, vocative,
surrounded the circle, momentarily cutting off his view. He changed his
position to the bulwarks beside the group. There, a yard or two from
the gleaming head, he perched on the rail, feet laced into its supports,
and continued his concentrated observation.
"See yon chap," remarked the Scot from the smoking-room door to
which his talent-seeking round of the deck had again brought him.
"He's fair staring the eyes oot o'his head!"
"Exceedingly annoying to the young lady, I should imagine," returned
his table neighbor, the prim minister, who had joined the group.
"Hoots, she willna' mind the likes of him," scoffed the other, with his
booming laugh.
And indeed she did not. Oblivious equally of Byrd and of her more
distant watchers, the English girl passed from "Hunt the Slipper" to "A
Cold and Frosty Morning," and from that to story-telling, as absorbed
as her small companions, or as her watcher-in-chief.
Gradually the sun broke out, the water danced, huddled shapes began to
rise in their chairs, disclosing unexpected spots of color--a bright tie or
a patterned blouse--animation increased on all sides, and the ring about
the storyteller became three deep.
After a time a couple of perky young stewards appeared with huge iron
trays, containing thick white cups half full of chicken broth, and piles
of biscuits. Upon this, the pouter-pigeon lady bore off her small son to
be fed, other mothers did the same, and the remaining children, at the

lure of food, sidled off of their own accord, or sped wildly, whooping
out promises to return. For the moment, the story-teller was alone.
Stefan, seeing the Scot bearing down upon her with two cups of broth
in his hand and purpose in his eye, wakened to the danger just in time.
Throwing his cigarette overboard, he sprang lightly between her and
the approaching menace.
"Won't you be perfectly kind, and come for a walk?" he asked, stooping
to where she sat. The girl looked up into a pair of green-gold eyes set in
a brown, eager face. The face was lighted with a smile of dazzling
friendliness, and surmounted by an uncovered head of thick,
brown-black hair. Slowly her own eyes showed an answering smile.
"Thank you, I should love to," she said, and rising, swung off beside
him, just in time--as Stefan maneuvered it--to avoid seeing the Scot and
his carefully balanced offering. Discomfited, that individual consoled
himself with both cups of broth, and bided his time.
"My name is Stefan Byrd. I am a painter, going to America to sell some
pictures. I'm twenty-six. What is your name?" said Stefan, who never
wasted time in preliminaries and abhorred small talk--turning his
brilliant happy smile upon her.
"To answer by the book," she replied, smiling too, "my name is Mary
Elliston. I'm twenty-five. I do odd jobs, and am going to America to try
to find one to live on."
"What fun!" cried Stefan, with a faunlike skip of pleasure, as they
turned onto the emptier windward deck. "Then we're both seeking our
fortunes."
"Living, rather than fortune, in my case, I'm afraid."
"Well, of course you don't need a fortune, you carry so much gold with
you," and he glanced at her shining hair.
"Not negotiable, unluckily," she replied, taking his compliment as he
had paid it, without a trace of self-consciousness.
"Like the sunlight," he answered. "In fact,"--confidentially--"I'm afraid
you're a thief; you've imprisoned a piece of the sun, which should
belong to us all. However, I'm not going to complain to the authorities,
I like the result too much. You don't mind my saying that, do you?" he
continued, sure that she did not. "You see, I'm a painter. Color means
everything to me--that and form."
"One never minds hearing nice things, I think," she replied, with a

frank smile. They were swinging up and down the windward deck, and
as he talked he was acutely aware of her free movements beside him,
and of the blow of her skirts to leeward. Her hair, too closely pinned to
fly loose, yet seemed to spring from