RS. CARDIGAN cupped her chin in the palm of her hand and leaned with graceful lankness toward the host.
“Who is the young person hating us so candidly?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the fore deck.
Hilary, mindful of the mock flirtation that was always a little joke between them, came to time with a contribution. “Didn't know anybody could hate you.” His glance swept the deck and reached a full stop upon a girl standing by the rail. “By Jove, where did she come from? Looks like a Norse goddess. Sorry, but I haven't the pleasure of knowing her.”
“She'll know you again,” laughed Mrs. Cardigan with the quiet provocative insolence that distinguished her. “Looks as if she'd like to sweep us all into the sea. She must be the captain at least.”
“May be the captain's daughter. Ever see anything more spirited and untamed? I'd like to paint her just as she stands. 'The Daughter of a Viking.' Gad!”
Frona Sigmund looked the part. In her pose and bearing were the elemental vigor of the sea, the buoyant strength of a young race just coming to its place in the sun. Her hair was of a lustrous copper, thick and wavy. It fell in two thick ropes across the shoulders to the waist. Something savage gleamed from the flashing eyes that met the amused ones of Hilary so stormily. In spite of its slenderness, her young lithe body promised power in every line. Contrasted with the group of people taking tea under the awning, in whose faces was written the Twentieth Century quintessence of worldliness, this girl breathed the note of the primitive. She was what the wind and the sea and a life of freedom had made her.
Hilary guessed only vaguely the cause of her anger. It was plain that she resented their presence on board the freighter. But why? Their visit to the Santa Clara had been born of a whim, the passing fancy of one of the young women who had been his guests. His man had telephoned a caterer, and they had motored down to the wharf. Though he owned the line of which this ship was a unit, he had never before set eyes on the vessel. But surely he had a right to have an awning rigged and give a little tea on the deck of his own boat. What matter if he did delay the sailing till next tide?
It cannot be denied that Hilary was rather a spoiled favorite of fortune. Most of the good things of life had been his without effort. At college he had been popular, and ever since had been the focus of attention. It was not the fault of capable mothers that he had as yet escaped a dozen matrimonial snares. No doubt he wore, unconsciously and always amiably, the manner of a monarch of all he surveyed. He could not, for instance, understand why this young Norse beauty should boil with rage merely because he enjoyed his own.
From the viewpoint of Frona it was bad enough to interfere with the loading of the Santa Clara for such a frivolous reason as an afternoon tea. But the manner of this dapper young overlord made his offense infinitely worse. He had sent down his men to make arrangements for the affair with scarce a by-your-leave to Captain Sigmund. The caterer had taken possession of the cook's galley as a matter of course and had grumbled because it lacked conveniences. The careless apology of Hilary to her father for putting him to so much trouble had been entirely inadequate, and the cool negligence with which the women had left Captain Sigmund and his daughter out of the picture was intolerable. Did they not know that on his own deck a captain was supreme and an owner a mere nobody?
Frona crossed the deck toward the cabin, her eyes deliberately ignoring the party under the awning. Mrs. Cardigan stopped her. She held up an empty plate for the girl.
“Will you bring some more of these biscuits, steward?”
The eyes of the woman and of the girl met. Frona read in those of Mrs. Cardigan a hint of piquant amusement, of malicious audacity.
The anger of the girl had been a banked fire. Now it blazed out. She took the plate and with one sweeping gesture sent it sailing across the rail into the dirty waters of the bay.
Turning on her heel, she walked quickly away, the supple, erect figure and the little clenched fists eloquent of fury.
T was late—or early if one counts time by the clock—when Hilary came out from his club into the crisp night air. After hours of poker in a hot room the light cool breath of wind was refreshing. He waved aside the cabman and strode down the street. His rooms made no appeal to him. Never had he felt less sleepy. And a vague but urgent impulse was drawing him from the conventional routine of his life. It was odd how the memory of a young girl's anger recurred, how her frank contempt came to him as a sort of reproach.