sit there under the salt sky and feel one's self rounding the great
curves of the globe. The long deck made a white spot in the sharp
black circle of the ocean and in the intense sea-light, while the
shadow of the smoke-streamers trembled on the familiar floor, the
shoes of fellow-passengers, distinctive now, and in some cases
irritating, passed and repassed, accompanied, in the air so
tremendously "open," that rendered all voices weak and most remarks
rather flat, by fragments of opinion on the run of the ship.
Vogelstein by this time had finished his little American story and
now definitely judged that Pandora Day was not at all like the
heroine. She was of quite another type; much more serious and
strenuous, and not at all keen, as he had supposed, about making the
acquaintance of gentlemen. Her speaking to him that first afternoon
had been, he was bound to believe, an incident without importance
for herself; in spite of her having followed it up the next day by
the remark, thrown at him as she passed, with a smile that was
almost fraternal: "It's all right, sir! I've found that old
chair." After this she hadn't spoken to him again and had scarcely
looked at him. She read a great deal, and almost always French
books, in fresh yellow paper; not the lighter forms of that
literature, but a volume of Sainte-Beuve, of Renan or at the most,
in the way of dissipation, of Alfred de Musset. She took frequent
exercise and almost always walked alone, apparently not having made
many friends on the ship and being without the resource of her
parents, who, as has been related, never budged out of the cosy
corner in which she planted them for the day.

Her brother was always in the smoking-room, where Vogelstein
observed him, in very tight clothes, his neck encircled with a
collar like a palisade. He had a sharp little face, which was not