They had the promenade all to
themselves. The rainy winter night was not so inviting to most of the
passengers as the comfortable rooms below. Kenyon, however, and one or
two others came up, and sat on the steamer chairs that were tied to the
brass rod which ran along the deckhouse wall. He saw the glow of
Wentworth's cigar as the couple turned at the farther end of the walk,
and when they passed him he heard a low murmur of conversation, and
caught now and then a snatch of silvery laughter. It was not because
Wentworth had deserted him that Kenyon felt so uncomfortable and
depressed. He could not tell just what it was, but there had settled on
his mind a strange, uneasy foreboding. After a time he went down into the
saloon and tried to read, but could not, and so wandered along the
seemingly endless narrow passage to his room (which was Wentworth's as
well), and, in nautical phrase, 'turned in.' It was late when his
companion came.
'Asleep, Kenyon?' asked the latter.
'No,' was the answer.
'By George! John, she is one of the most charming girls I ever met.
Wonderfully clever, too; makes a man feel like a fool beside her. She has
read nearly everything. Has opinions on all our authors, a great many of
whom I've never heard of. I wish, for your sake, John, she had a sister
on board.'
'Thanks, old man; awfully good of you, I'm sure,' said Kenyon. 'Don't
you think it's about time to stop raving, get into your bunk, and turn
out that confounded light?'
'All right, growler, I will.
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