you?”
She leaned back in the small swivel chair, and regarded him from an immense distance.
“Why, of course!… Don’t you believe me?”
“No! I’m from Missouri, ” she replied savagely. “And I think you’re real rude.”
Smith poked Demarest with his elbow, not spilling the potato from his fork.
“Now see what you’ve gone and done—made the little girl mad. Just when I was getting on so well, too.”
“ Who was getting on so well?” … Mrs. Faubion glowered.
“Of all the conceited men——!” contributed Miss Dacey, bridling.
“Ah, father, you shouldn’t blame me like this … Is it my fault?… Is the child father to the man … No; if you’d only resisted those nickel spoons—sternly—walked out proudly with empty pockets and a pure heart——”
“Well, you don’t have to tell everybody, do you?… You’ve spoiled my chances. What hope is there for me now?” He looked sadly at Mrs. Faubion. “Me, an ex-convict, a kleptomaniac!”
“What a lovely word,” said Miss Dacey. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Barnes?”
Demarest thought she was about to lay her head on Mr. Barnes’s plate—so yearningly did she gush forward. Mr. Barnes leaned back a little.
“Oh, a lovely word!” he agreed. “Still, as Purser of this ship, I suppose I ought to be careful—what?… I must warn you, Mr. Smith, that everything you say will be held against you. It’s a beautiful word; but I’m a dutiful man.”
Miss Dacey clapped her hands, jingling the bangle.
“Oh, doesn’t he talk nicely! Beautiful—dutiful! Just like poetry! Do you like poetry, Mr. Barnes? Do you like poetry, Mr. Kleptomaniac? Do you like poetry, Mr. I-don’t-know-your-name”?
“Demarest?… Certainly. If I can have a little beer and cheese with it, or a game of billiards after it!”
“How vulgar of you!… And you, Mr. Barnes?”
“Oh yes, yes!” cried Mr. Barnes.
“ I don’t,” snapped Mrs. Faubion. “I think it’s all tosh. Me for a good dance, or a nice show, and plenty of jazz. On the beach at Wy-kee-kee!” She snapped her fingers lazily, dreamily, and gave a singular little “H’m’m!” like the dying-fall, cloying, of a ukelele.
“Twangle, twangle, little guitar!” said Smith. “I’m right with you, darling! Make it two!”
“Careful, father. Remember your years. Forgive him, Mrs. Faubion. He means well,—but you know—bubbles in the think-tank …”
“Yes, sir,” said Smith. “I sure do like a little jazz. Give me a good nigger orchestra every time. I remember once, at the Starcroft Inn, a dance hall—but no. No, I can’t tell it here. Too many ladies here.”
“Well! If that’s the way you feel about it!” … Mrs. Faubion folded her napkin, thrust it venomously into the ring, and rose. “Good night !” She walked away bristling. At the door she turned and looked hard at Demarest, who watching her. Their eyes met, then wavered apart. Smith laughed delightedly.
“That time, father, it was you .”
“ Don’t call me father !—makes me feel too old. Brr !… On the beach at Wai-ki-ki … Some girl!… Have a cigar, Mr. Purser?… Mr. Demarest?” He beamed, offering cigars. Then he walked solemnly away, pinching the end of a cigar between finger and thumb.
“Jolly old boy that!” said Mr. Barnes. “Have you know him long?”
“Never saw him till today.”
“Jolly old boy!… Are you going, Miss Dacey? Have we fed you well enough?”
“Oh, beautifully, thank you, Mr. Barnes! Do you have to go and do that awful work now?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
“Good night, then!”
“Good night!”
“Daisy Dacey,” said Mr. Barnes to Demarest. “How’s that for a name, eh? And look at her card, she gave it to me. ‘Miss Daisy Dacey. England and the United States!’ Isn’t that a scream?”
“The Western Hemisphere and Mars,” murmured Demarest.
Feeling suddenly that they had nothing more to say to each other, they drifted shyly apart. The orchestra,