ading her Bible. Soon she
would be saying her prayers.

"Next," he whispered. And in the cabin on her other side we caught a
glimpse of two jovial men playing cards in gay pajamas with a bottle of
Scotch between them.

"Next." And as we went on down the row he gave me the names of an
English earl, a Jewish clothing merchant, a Minnesota ranchman, a
banker's widow from Boston, a Tammany politician, a Catholic bishop from
Baltimore, a millionaire cheese maker from Troy and a mining king from
Montana.

"How about that," he asked at the end, "for an American row de luxe?"

"My God, it's great," I whispered.

"There's only one big question here," he added. "Your long respectable
pedigrees and your nice little Puritanical codes can all go to
blazes--this big boat will throw 'em all overboard for you--if you can
answer, 'I've got the price.'"

CHAPTER XII

Meanwhile, in the late Autumn, Eleanore had come back to town. I had a
note from her one day.

"Come and tell me what you are writing," she said.

I went to see her that afternoon, and I was deeply excited. I had often
felt her by my side when I was watching the harbor life and as often
behind me while I wrote. We had had long talks together, absorbing talks
about ourselves. And though now in her easy welcome and through all her
cheerful questions there was not a suggestion that we two had been or
ever would be anything but genial friends, this did not discourage me in
the least. No fellow, I thought, could be happy as I and have nothing
better than friendship ahead. The Fates could never be so hard, for
certainly now they were smiling.

Here was her apartment, just the place I had felt it would be, only
infinitely more attractive. High up above the Manhattan jungle, it was
quiet and sunny and charming here. From the low, wide living-room
windows you could see miles out over the harbor where my work was going
so splendidly, and all around the room itself I saw what I was working
for. Eleanore's touch was everywhere. An intimate, lovable feminine home
with man-sized views from its windows--just like Eleanore herself, from
whom I found it difficult to keep my hungry eyes away. To that soft
bewildering hair of hers she had done something different--I couldn't
tell what, but I loved it. I loved the changing tones of her voice--I
hate monotonous voices. I watched the smiling lights in her eyes. She
was at her small tea table now. Her motorboat, thank Heaven,