The Honorable Percival

								

slipped his arms into the top-coat that was being respectfully held
for him.
Once again on deck, he found that the wind had acquired a sudden edge.
The short chop of the waves and scudding of gray clouds indicated that
the customary bit of rough weather after leaving the Golden Gate was to
be expected. Percival was not happy in rough weather. He attributed it
to extreme sensitiveness to atmospheric conditions. Whatever the cause,
the result remained that he was not happy.
The motion of the vessel made him pause a moment. The casual observer
would have said he stopped to cast an experienced eye on a sky that
could not deceive him; but the casual observer does not always know.
It is a long distance between the prow and the stern of an ocean liner,
when the deck is composed of alternating mountains and valleys that one
has to climb and descend. Percival found it decidedly hard going before
he reached his steamer-chair.
When he did so, he encountered a sight that filled him with chagrin.
Wrapped in the folds of his rug was that obnoxious blue-and-lavender
steamer-coat, with its owner snugly ensconced within, her eyes closed,
and her cheek brazenly reposing on the Hascombe crest that adorned the
pillow under her head!
Percival paused, irresolute, and his nostrils quivered. He wanted
very much to sit down, and he was unwilling to occupy any other
steamer-chair, for fear its owner might claim it. There was nothing left
for him but to pace up and down that undulating deck until the young
person opened her eyes and discovered, by glances which he would render
unmistakable, that she was trespassing.
When his third round brought him in front of her, and he saw that she
was awake, he carefully adjusted his monocle, and turned upon her a look
that was not unfamiliar to certain menials in the employ of Hascombe
Hall.
But no withering blight followed his look. Instead, the wearer of the
gaudy coat sat up suddenly and said, with a radiant smile:
"Well, did you ever! Where did you come from?"
By a curious twist, his mind suddenly beheld a rolling prairie in place
of the tumbling sea, and a comely figure in khaki and brown leggings in
place of the muffled form in the hideous coat. His suspicion was
confirmed when he met the frank gaze of the bluest eyes that ever held a
challenge.
Instead of being amused, Percival was profoundly annoyed. The incident
on the train had been pretty enough in its way, but it was closed. As it
stood, it had been rather artistic and satisfying. A wild, unknown bit
of femininity dashing into his life for ten throbbing minutes, then
vanishing into the sunset, was one thing, and this very tangible young
person in clothes of the wrong cut and color, addressing him in terms of
easy familiarity, was quite another.
"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "Did you address me?"