"He told me in confidence, he's engaged to her."

Frederick remained silent. That was his only way of concealing his
profound dismay, now that the ship's doctor confirmed the supposition he
had expressed at the dinner-table.

"Achleitner is a faithful dog," Doctor Wilhelm continued. "He is one of
those men who have a canine sort of patience. He sits up on his hind legs
and begs for a lump of sugar. He fetches and carries and lies down and
plays dead. She could do whatever she wanted, and he would still, I
think, be her patient, faithful poodle. If you'd like to, Doctor von
Kammacher, we might go on deck and visit her. She's lots of fun. Besides
we can watch the sun set."




XII


Little Mara lay stretched out in a steamer chair. Achleitner was most
uncomfortably perched on a small camp-stool directly in front of her, so
that he could look straight into her face. He had wrapped her up to her
shoulders in rugs. The setting sun, casting its rays across the mighty
heavings of the sea, glorified a lovely face. The ship was no longer
tossing so violently, and the deck was lively with people sitting in
chairs or promenading up and down. Some of the passengers had got over
their seasickness, and there was a general air of revived animation and
talkativeness.