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 volume he recommends in 'Books which have influenced men,' I suppose? What a charming idea! I shall never forgive myself for not having thought of it long ago."
Courtenay laughed and blushed like any schoolgirl. Elsie's appreciation had a downright, honest ring in it that went far beyond the platitudes. She accorded him the ready comradeship of a kin soul.
"Many people have been surprised by my collection; you are the first to discover its inspiration," he said.
"That is not strange. There are so few who read. Reading means discerning, interpreting. I am a worshiper of R. L. S., but I have been shocked to find that for a hundred who can talk glibly of his novels there is hardly one who has communed with him in his essays."
"We have actually hit upon a topic that should prove inexhaustible.
Believe me, Miss Maxwell, that is my pet subject. More than once,
needing a listener, I have even lectured my long-suffering terrier,
Joey, on the point."
Isobel laughed softly. The two standing in front of the bookcase started apart, with a sudden consciousness that they were speaking unguardedly, for Isobel's mirth had mockery in it—"there was a laughing devil in her sneer."
"By the way, where is Joey?" she asked.
The dog answered her question by appearing, with a stretch and a yawn, from beneath a bunk. He had heard his name in Courtenay's voice. That sufficed for Joey at any time.
"What a strange animal!" went on Isobel. "I should have thought that he would bark, or peep out at us, at the least, when we came in."
"Joey had a disturbed night," said Courtenay. "We passed the evening in the Hotel Colon, and he regards South American hotels as the natural dwelling-place of cats, and other bad characters. Here, he is at home, and he knew that I was present."
"Otherwise, he would have classified us as suspicious?"
"He is far too discriminating. What do you say, pup?"
Joey looked up at his master. Apparently, he found the conversation trivial; he yawned again, capaciously.
"You darling! You must have slept with one eye open," said Elsie, stooping to pat him.
"Oh, take care!" cried Isobel. "He may bite you."
"Not he! When you see that wistful look in a dog's eyes, have no fear. He wants to speak then. You won't bite me, will you, dear?" And Elsie sank on one knee, to stroke Joey's white coat; whereupon Joey tried to lick her face.
"Between the Stevenson Library and the captain's dog you are installed as a prime favorite on board the Kansas," commented Isobel. The other girl rose hurriedly. She had caught the touch of malice in the smooth voice.
"Captain Courtenay is too polite to remind us that we are intruders," she said lightly. "We forget that he is busy. Joey, candidly canine, did not try to hide his feelings."
Isobel swung her chair round to face the door.
"This is quite the best place in the ship," she said. "I am very comfortable, thank you. Please don't send us away, captain."
Before Courtenay could answer, the officer of the watch looked in.
"Cape Caraumilla bearing sou'west of the Buei Rock, sir," he announced, and vanished again.
"Don't hurry," said Courtenay, taking up his cap. "I must leave you for a few minutes."
He was gone, with Joey at his heels, and there was a brief silence.
"Really, Isobel, we should go back on deck," urged Elsie, uneasily. Already she half regretted the impulse which led her to intervene in her friend's special hobby.
"I like that. I didn't credit you with such guile, Elsie Maxwell. You snap up my nice captain beneath my very nose, and coolly propose that I should vacate the battlefield. Oh dear, no! I can't talk literature, but I can flirt, and I have not finished with Arthur yet by a long chalk."
"Isobel, if you knew how you hurt me—"
Miss Baring crossed her pretty feet, folded her arms, and gave her companion a smiling glance.
"So artful, too. 'Love me, love my dog,' eh? You actually took my breath away."
"It may amaze you to learn that I meant to achieve that much, at any rate," was Elsie's quiet retort as she turned to select a volume from the queer miscellany in the bookcase.
"Oh, don't be cruel. Leave me my Frenchman! Say you won't wheedle Edouard by quoting the classics of his native tongue! Poor me! Here have I been warming a serpent in my bosom."
With a moue of make-believe anguish Isobel leaned back in her chair. She was insolently conscious of her superior attractions. Was she not the richest heiress in Valparaiso? Had not her father chartered this ship? And was not Elsie even now flying from an unwelcome suitor? She knew full well that her friend would resent the slightest semblance of love-making on the part of any man on board. Already her astonishment at Elsie's unlooked-for vivacity was yielding to the humor of meeting such a rival. The Count might serve as a foil, but the real quarry now was the captain. That very night there would be a moon. And the sea was calm as a sheltered lake. Isobel's lips parted in a delighted smile as she tried to imagine Courtenay deserting her to discuss those celebrities whom Elsie had made the most of. And how she would play off the Count against the captain! They ought to be at daggers drawn long before the Straits of Magellan were reached. Certainly she never expected such sport on board such a humdrum ship as the Kansas.
Suddenly they both heard an excited bark from the dog, and the quick rush of feet along the deck; Courtenay's voice reached them with a new and startling note