The Honorable Percival

								

bitterly upon that paragon of perfection who had caused his banishment.
How completely she would have filled the rôle of mistress of that noble
hall! He pictured her in irreproachable toilets, pouring tea in the east
drawing-room, and receiving her guests with the exact shade of warmth
that their social positions demanded.
As he recalled her manner of cool distinction and her polished,
impersonal phrases, another feminine figure dared to flit between him
and this lady of manifold merit. No sooner would he indignantly banish
her image than she would come dancing back, a gay little figure, with
too much color in her checks and too much daring in her eyes.
"Why don't you let yourself have a good time?" she had asked, and the
question repeated itself now with maddening insistence. Was he, who had
always had everything, now missing something--something that other
people had?
When two bells sounded he reluctantly went below for lunch. The prospect
of a tête-à-tête with the captain was anything but pleasant. He
understood about half that the officer said, and with that half he
usually disagreed. His first remark was unfortunate:
"All this dirt means more washing down of the decks, I suppose. Beastly
racket it makes. Is there any earthly reason why it should always be
done at dawn?"
"Most one-sidedly," said the captain; "it gives the sailors a chance to
see the sunrise."
There was a short silence, then Percival asked:
"What's the name of that young South American who went ashore with your
daughter?"
"South American?" repeated the captain. "I pass."
"The blatant youth who sits at your left."
"Oh, you mean Vaughn. He's no South American. He hails from Virginia."
"Thought he said he was a Southerner. May I trouble you for the
mustard?"
"Did the Daughter of the Revolution go along?" asked the captain.
"Beg pardon?"
"Mrs. Weston. She's a D.A.R. She has told me so five times; that's how
I know."
"Really, why was she chosen to be the Daughter of the Regiment?"
"The Revolution, not the regiment. You remember that little skirmish
that took place in '75?"
Percival considered this thrust beneath his notice. His simmering
antagonism for the captain was nearing the boiling-point.
"I say," he said, "will you kindly arrange for a bit of air to enter
this room? It's ghastly, perfectly ghastly."
"Sure," said the captain, dexterously mixing a salad of alligator pears.
"Ah Foo, open some of those ports and let in the coal-dust. Have some of
this tropical mess?"
"Thanks, no. I'm not specially fit today. Had a beastly night of it.
Fancy having to keep one's umbrella up in the berth to keep the light
from the passage out of one's eyes! I don't believe such a thing could
happen on a British steamer. Can't you manage to give me another
state-room?"
"That's the purser's job; he's the room-clerk," said the captain. "I'm
only the skipper."
Percival glanced quickly at the weather-beaten face, but found no