Smithson's
vitals might be devoured by the gnawing of the green-eyed monster, but
however fierce that gnawing were, he did not want to seem jealous.
Montesma was there as the very incarnation of some experiences in Mr.
Smithson's past career, and he dared not object to the man's presence.
And so the summer day wore on. They had the yacht all to themselves that
evening, for the racing yachts were fulfilling engagements in other
waters, and the gay company of pleasure-seekers had not yet fully
assembled. They were dropping in one by one, all the evening, and Cowes
roads grew fuller of life with every hour of the summer night.
Mr. Smithson and his guests dined in the saloon, a snug little party of
four, and sat long over dessert, deep into the dusk; and they talked of
all things under heaven, things frivolous, things grave, but most of all
about that fair, strange world in far-off southern waters, the sunny
islands of the Caribbean Sea, and the dreamy, luxurious life of that
tropical clime, half Spanish, half Oriental, wholly independent of
European conventionalities.
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