South Wind | Page 2

of his eye
all the time at a pretty peasant girl reclining uncomfortably in a corner.
He rose and arranged the cushions to her liking. In doing so he must
have made some funny remark in her ear, for she smiled wanly as she
said:
"Grazie, Don Francesco."
"Means thank you, I suppose," thought the Bishop. "But why is he a
don?"
Of the other alien travellers, those charming but rather metallic
American ladies had retired to the cabin; so had the English family; so
had everybody, in fact. On deck there remained of the foreign
contingent nobody but himself and Mr. Muhlen, a flashy over-dressed
personage who seemed to relish the state of affairs. He paced up and
down, cool as a cucumber, trying to walk like a sailor, and blandly
indifferent to the agonized fellow-creatures whom the movements of
the vessel caused him to touch, every now and then, with the point of
his patent-leather boots. Patent-leather boots. That alone classes him,
thought Mr. Heard. Once he paused and remarked, in his horrible
pronunciation of English:

"That woman over there with the child! I wonder what I would do in
her place? Throw it into the water, I fancy. It's often the only way of
getting rid of a nuisance."
"Rather a violent measure," replied the Bishop politely.
"You're not feeling very well, sir?" he continued, with a fine
assumption of affability. "I am so sorry. As for me, I like a little
movement of the boat. You know our proverb? Weeds don't spoil. I'm
alluding to myself, of course!"
Weeds don't spoil. . . .
Yes, he was a weed. Mr. Heard had not taken kindly to him; he hoped
they would not see too much of each other on Nepenthe, which he
understood to be rather a small place. A few words of civility over the
table d'hote had led to an exchange of cards--a continental custom
which Mr. Heard always resented. It could not easily be avoided in the
present case. They had talked of Nepenthe, or rather Mr. Muhlen had
talked; the bishop, as usual, preferring to listen and to learn. Like
himself, Mr. Muhlen had never before set foot on the place. To be sure,
he had visited other Mediterranean islands; he knew Sicily fairly well
and had once spent a pleasant fortnight on Capri. But Nepenthe was
different. The proximity to Africa, you know; the volcanic soil. Oh yes!
It was obviously quite another sort of island. Business? No! He was not
bound on any errand of business; not on any errand at all. Just a little
pleasure trip. One owes something to one's self: N'EST-CE-PAS? And
this early summer was certainly the best time for travelling. One could
count on good weather; one could sleep in the afternoon, if the heat
were excessive. He had telegraphed for a couple of rooms in what was
described as the best hotel--he hoped the visitors staying there would
be to his liking. Unfortunately--so he gathered--the local society was a
little mixed, a little--how shall we say?--ultra-cosmopolitan. The
geographical situation of the island, lying near the converging point of
many trade-routes, might account for this. And then its beauty and
historical associations: they attracted strange tourists from every part of
the world. Queer types! Types to be avoided, perhaps. But what did it
matter, after all? It was one of the advantages of being a man, a

civilized man, that you could amuse yourself among any class of
society. As for himself, he liked the common people, the peasants and
fishermen; he felt at home among them; they were so genuine, so
refreshingly different.
To suchlike ingratiating and rather obvious remarks the bishop had
listened, over the dinner table, with urbane acquiescence and growing
distrust. Peasants and fisher folks! This fellow did not look as if he
cared for such company. He was probably a fraud.
They had met again in the evening, and taken a short stroll along the
quay where a noisy band was discoursing operatic airs. The
performance elicited from Mr. Muhlen some caustic comments on
Latin music as contrasted with that of Russia and other countries. He
evidently knew the subject. Mr. Heard, to whom music was Greek,
soon found himself out of his depths. Later on, in the smoking-room,
they had indulged in a game of cards--the bishop being of that
broadminded variety which has not the slightest objection to a
gentlemanly gamble. Once more his companion had revealed himself
as an accomplished amateur.
No; it was something else that annoyed him about the man--certain
almost contemptuous remarks he had dropped in the course of the
evening on the subject of the female sex; not any particular member of
it, but the sex in general. Mr. Heard was sensitive on that point.