There was not a
look, not a word that hinted at a private understanding between them, or
which seemed to convey deeper meanings than the common language of
society. No, there was no ground for fault-finding; and yet Smithson was
miserable. He knew this man of old, and knew his influence over women.
Mr. Smithson handed over the management of the yacht without a murmer,
albeit he pretended to be able to sail her himself, and was in the habit
of taking the command for a couple of hours on a sunny afternoon, much
to the amusement of skipper and crew. But Montesma was a sailor born and
bred--the salt keen breath of the sea had been the first breath in his
nostrils--he had managed his light felucca before he was twelve years
old, had sailed every inch of the Caribbean Sea, and northward to the
furthermost of the Bahamas before he was fifteen. He had lived more on
the water than on the land in that wild boyhood of his; a boyhood in
which books and professors had played but small part. Montesma's school
had been the world, and beautiful women his only professors.
Pages:
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789