The Captain of the Kansas | Page 3

of plate glass,
shining mahogany, and white paint. The woodwork of the deck was
scrubbed until it had the color of new bread. An officer paced the
bridge; a sailor, within the chart-house, held the small wheel of the
steam steering-gear. Somewhat to Isobel's surprise, neither man seemed
to be aware of her presence.
"So this is your den?" she said, throwing her bird-like glance over the
bright interior, before she gave the commander a look which was
designed to bewitch him instantly. "Surely you don't sleep here, too?"
"Oh, no. This room is the brain of the ship, Miss Baring. We are always
wide-awake here. My quarters are farther aft. I think I can find a chair
for you if you care to sit down while I have my tea."
The captain led the way to a spacious cabin behind the chart-house.
"I hope you don't mind the chairs being secured to the deck," he said,
taking off his hat. "So far above sea line, you know, everything that is
loose comes to grief when the ship rolls."
"Then what becomes of your photographs?" demanded Isobel,
promptly, her quick eyes having discovered the pictures of two ladies
in silver frames on a writing-table.
"I take care to put them away. There is always plenty of warning. No
ordinary sea can trouble a big hulk like the Kansas."
"Is that your mother, the dear old lady in the lace cap?"
"Yes, and the other is my sister."
"Oh, really! Is she married?"

"No. Like me, she is wedded to her profession."
"Will you think it rude if I ask what that is?"
"She is a hospital nurse; the matron, indeed, of a public institution in
the suburbs of London."
"How wonderful! I do admire hospital nurses so much. They are so
clever and self-sacrificing, and they always have a smile on their sweet
faces. Only dad wouldn't hear of such a thing, I should love to be a
nurse myself."
And Isobel sighed, dropped her long eyelashes, and examined the toe of
a smart brown shoe with a wistful resignation. Courtenay was politely
incredulous, but the arrival of the steward with the replenished tea-tray
created a diversion.
"Do let me pour your tea," cried Isobel. "I make lovely tea, don't I,
Elsie?"
Elsie laughed so cheerfully that Isobel flashed an interrogatory glance
at her. Certainly, the notion of Isobel Baring claiming the domestic
virtues was amusing. But Elsie answered at once:
"I know few things that you cannot do admirably, dear."
So Isobel filled a cup, asked if Captain Courtenay took milk and sugar,
and said demurely, with a sip of a spoonful:
"Let me see if I can guess your tastes."
Elsie's blue eyes assumed a deeper shade. Men might like that kind of
thing, but she felt that her face and neck would be poppy red in another
moment. Thus far she had not addressed a word to Courtenay, though
by his manner he had included her in the conversation. She now
resolved to break in on the attack which Isobel was beginning with the
adroitness of a skilled campaigner. And she, too, could use her eyes to
advantage when she chose.

"What a curious library you have, Captain Courtenay," she said,
looking, not at him, but at a row of books fitting closely into a small
case over the writing-table. Instantly the sailor was interested.
"Why 'curious,' Miss Maxwell?" he asked.
"First, in their assortment; secondly, in the similarity of their binding. I
have never before seen the Bible, Walt Whitman, and Dumas in covers
exactly alike."
"That is easily explained. They are bound to order. My real trouble was
to secure editions of equal size--an essential, you see--otherwise they
would not pack into their shelf."
"But what a gathering! Shakespeare, the Pilgrim's Progress,
Montaigne's Essays, Herbert Spencer, Goethe's Life, by Lewes, Marcus
Aurelius, Martial, Wordsworth, The Egoist, Thoreau, Hazlitt, and
Mitford's Tales of Old Japan! Where have I heard or read of that
particular galaxy of stars before?"
"Go on. You are on the right track," cried Courtenay, setting down the
teacup and hastening to Elsie's side. She was leaning on the table,
reading the titles of the books. The motive of her exclamation was
merged now in the fine ardor of the book-lover. She had an
unconscious trick of placing the forefinger of her right hand on her lips
when deeply engaged in thought. Elegant as Isobel Baring might be in
her studied poses, Elsie need fear no comparison as she examined the
contents of the bookcase with eager attention.
"Why the Vicomte de Bragelonne only, and not the Three Musketeers?"
she mused aloud. "And if the Life of Goethe, why not his poems, his
essays, Werther?--Ah, I know--'the crowning offence of Werther.' A
Stevenson library! Each