for the magazine, and he could remember nothing but that one small poem,
yet unprinted; he was rather vague about its value, but said it had
temperament.

"He has temperament, too," she commented, and she had made him tell her
everything he knew, or could be forced to imagine about Burnamy, before
she let the talk turn to other things.

The life of the promenade had already settled into seafaring form; the
steamer chairs were full, and people were reading or dozing in them with
an effect of long habit. Those who would be walking up and down had begun
their walks; some had begun going in and out of the smoking-room; ladies
who were easily affected by the motion were lying down in the music-room.
Groups of both sexes were standing at intervals along the rail, and the
promenaders were obliged to double on a briefer course or work slowly
round them. Shuffleboard parties at one point and ring-toss parties at
another were forming among the young people. It was as lively and it was
as dull as it would be two thousand miles at sea. It was not the least
cooler, yet; but if you sat still you did not suffer.

In the prompt monotony the time was already passing swiftly. The
deck-steward seemed hardly to have been round with tea and bouillon, and
he had not yet gathered up all the empty cups, when the horn for lunch
sounded. It was the youngest of the table-stewards who gave the summons
to meals; and whenever the pretty boy appeared with his bugle, funny
passengers gathered round him to make him laugh, and stop him from
winding it. His part of the joke was to fulfill his duty with gravity,
and only to give way to a smile of triumph as he walked off.