The Firing Line. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ unconsciousness of self, of him, of a situation which to any wholesome masculine mind contained the germs of humour, romance, and all sorts of amusing possibilities, began to be a little irksome to him. And still her aloofness amused him, too.

      "Do you know of any decorous reason why we should not talk to each other occasionally during this fog?" he asked.

      She turned her head, considered him inattentively, then turned it away again.

      "No," she said indifferently; "what did you desire to say?"

      Resting on his oars, the unrequited smile still forlornly edging his lips, he looked at his visitor, who was staring into the fog, lost in her own reflections; and never a glimmer in her eyes, never a quiver of lid or lash betrayed any consciousness of his gaze or even of his presence. And he continued to inspect her with increasing annoyance.

      The smooth skin, the vivid lips slightly upcurled, the straight delicate nose, the cheeks so smoothly rounded where the dark thick lashes swept their bloom as she looked downward at the water—all this was abstractly beautiful; very lovely, too, the full column of the neck, and the rounded arms guiltless of sunburn or tan.

      So unusually white were both neck and arms that Hamil ventured to speak of it, politely, asking her if this was not her first swim that season.

      Voice and question roused her from abstraction; she turned toward him, then glanced down at her unstained skin.

      "My first swim?" she repeated; "oh, you mean my arms? No, I never burn; they change very little." Straightening up she sat looking across the boat at him without visible interest at first, then doubtfully, as though in an effort to say something polite.

      "I am really very grateful to you for letting me sit here. Please don't feel obliged to amuse me during this annoying fog."

      "Thank you; you are rather difficult to talk to. But I don't mind trying at judicious intervals," he said, laughing.

      She considered him askance. "If you wish to row in, do so. I did not mean to keep you here at sea—"

      "Oh, I belong out here; I'm from the Ariani yonder; you heard her bell in the fog. We came from Nassau last night.... Have you ever been to Nassau?"

      The girl nodded listlessly and glanced at the white yacht, now becoming visible through the thinning mist. Somewhere above in the viewless void an aura grew and spread into a blinding glory; and all around, once more, the fog turned into floating golden vapour shot with rain.

      The girl placed both hands on the gunwales as though preparing to rise.

      "Not yet!" said Hamil sharply.

      "I beg your pardon?"—looking up surprised, still poised lightly on both palms as though checked at the instant of rising into swift aërial flight—so light, so buoyant she appeared.

      "Don't go overboard," he repeated.

      "Why not?"

      "Because I'm going to row you in."

      "I wish to swim; I prefer it."

      "I am only going to take you to the float—"

      "But I don't care to have you. I am perfectly able to swim in—"

      "I know you are," he said, swinging clear around in his seat to face her, "but I put it in the form of a request; will you be kind enough to let me row you part way to the float? This fog is not ended."

      She opened her lips to protest; indeed, for a moment it looked as if she were going overboard without further argument; then perhaps some belated idea of civility due him for the hospitality of his boat restrained her.

      "You understand, of course, that I am quite able to swim in," she said.

      "Yes; may I now row you part way? The fog is closing in again."

      She yielded with a pretty indifference, none the less charming because there was no flattery in it for him. He now sat facing her, pushing his oars through the water; and she stole a curious glance at his features—slightly sullen for the moment—noticing his well-set, well-shaped head and good shoulders.

      That fugitive glance confirmed the impression of recognition in her mind. He was what she had expected in breeding and physique—the type usually to be met with where the world can afford to take its leisure.

      As he was not looking at her she ventured to continue her inspection, leaning back, and dropping her bare arm alongside, to trail her fingers through the sunlit water.

      "Have we not rowed far enough?" she asked presently. "This fog is apparently going to last forever."

      "Like your silence," he said gaily.

      Raising her eyes in displeasure she met his own frankly amused.

      "Shall I tell you," he asked, "exactly why I insisted on rowing you in? I'm afraid"—he glanced at her with the quick smile breaking again on his lips—"I'm afraid you don't care whether I tell you or not. Do you?"

      "If you ask me—I really don't," she said. "And, by the way, do you know that if you turned around properly and faced the stern you could make better progress with your oars?"

      "By 'better' do you mean quicker progress?" he asked, so naïvely that she concluded he was a trifle stupid. The best-looking ones were usually stupid.

      "Yes, of course," she said, impatient. "It's all very well to push a punt across a mill-pond that way, but it's not treating the Atlantic with very much respect."

      "You were not particularly respectful toward the Atlantic Ocean when you started to swim across it."

      But again the echo of amusement in his voice found no response in her unsmiling silence.

      He thought to himself: "Is she a prude, or merely stupid! The pity of it!—with her eyes of a thinking goddess!—and no ideas behind them! What she understands is the commonplace. Let us offer her the obvious."

      And, aloud, fatuously: "This is a rarely beautiful scene—"

      "What?" crisply.

      And feeling mildly wicked he continued:

      –"Soft skies, a sea of Ionian azure; one might almost expect to see a triareme heading up yonder out of the south, festooned with the golden fleece. This is just the sort of a scene for a triareme; don't you think so?"

      Her reply was the slightest possible nod.

      He looked at her meanly amused:

      "It's really very classical," he said, "like the voyage of Ulysses; I, Ulysses, you the water nymph Calypso, drifting in that golden ship of Romance—"

      "Calypso was a land nymph," she observed, absently, "if accuracy interests you as much as your monologue."

      Checked and surprised, he began to laugh at his own discomfiture; and she, elbow on the gunwale, small hand cupping her chin, watched him with an expressionless directness that very soon extinguished his amusement and left him awkward in the silence.

      "I've tried my very best to be civil and agreeable," he said after a moment. "Is it really such an effort for you to talk to a man?"

      "Not СКАЧАТЬ