A volume of Mariol’s clever (and happily innocuous) short stories having been produced by somebody and put into circulation on the ship, Miss Winstanley had familiarized herself with them, and was engaged at odd moments in translating the little _chef d’oeuvres_ of style, with Bobby Vane, in whose imagination a book of any kind, save a betting book, loomed larger than an elephant.
Mariol, to whom direct address from casual people upon the subject of his writings was an affliction, had been rather dreading the young lady’s comments, and was relieved when she disposed of him thus easily:
"I think they’re just lovely, Mr. Mariol, and am trying to make Mr. Vane agree with me, but he declares they’re too jolly dismal and give him the awful blues. After this, when people say they envy me being at table with you, I can truly tell them you don’t talk the least bit like your books."
"Mrs. Kipling told me once," said Clandonald, following a laugh at Mariol’s expense, "that when a gushing American girl asked how she could endure the brilliancy of a certain chat between her husband and Cecil Rhodes on the Kiplings’ veranda in South Africa, she had been puzzled what to answer, because, as a matter of fact, each of these gentlemen had been trying to talk more delightful drivel than the other. What good luck for the rest of us, that great minds do unbend in the intimacy of private discourse!"
"If one doesn’t talk in brief paragraphs, like those columns printed in American newspapers for busy men to read in elevated trains, one isn’t listened to, I find," said the author, ruefully.
"In most countries, nowadays," observed Prince Zourikoff, looking anxiously to see whether the portion of cold braised beef left upon the platter was enough for his liberal appetite, "the fine arts of conversation and correspondence have both been driven like chaff before the wind of modern restlessness. Nobody converses, few read, friendly communication is achieved by wire or telephone. And as to introducing a serious topic into society—perish the thought! One would be voted a superannuated nuisance."
"I have always thought it the best compliment a man can pay a woman," said Miss Carstairs, blushing a little, "when he talks to her, in earnest, about what dominates his thoughts."