gray eyes as his daughter, although his are genial rather
than warm; and his eyes have the same trick of smiling. His skin is
pinker than hers, and his brows and lashes are fairer. But he seems
removed beyond passion, or even simple enthusiasm. Miss West is firm,
like her father; but there is warmth in her firmness. He is clean, he is
sweet and courteous; but he is coolly sweet, coolly courteous. With all
his certain graciousness, in cabin or on deck, so far as his social
equals are concerned, his graciousness is cool, elevated, thin.

He is the perfect master of the art of doing nothing. He never reads,
except the Bible; yet he is never bored. Often, I note him in a deck-
chair, studying his perfect finger-nails, and, I'll swear, not seeing
them at all. Miss West says he loves the sea. And I ask myself a
thousand times, "But how?" He shows no interest in any phase of the sea.
Although he called our attention to the glorious sunset I have just
described, he did not remain on deck to enjoy it. He sat below, in the
big leather chair, not reading, not dozing, but merely gazing straight
before him at nothing.

* * * * *

The days pass, and the seasons pass. We left Baltimore at the tail-end
of winter, went into spring and on through summer, and now we are in fall
weather and urging our way south to the winter of Cape Horn. And as we
double the Cape and proceed north, we shall go through spring and
summer--a long summer--pursuing the sun north through its declination and
arriving at Seattle in summer. And all these seasons have occurred, and
will have occurred, in the space of five months.

Our white ducks are gone, and, in south latitude thirty-five, we are
wearing the garments of a temperate clime. I notice that Wada has given
me heavier underclothes and heavier pyjamas, and that Possum, of nights,
is no longer content with the top of the bed but must crawl underneath
the bed-clothes.

* * * * *

We are now off the Plate, a region notorious for storms, and Mr. Pike is
on the lookout for a pampero. Captain West does not seem to be on the
lookout for anything; yet I notice that he spends longer hours on deck
when the sky and barometer are threatening.

Yesterday we had a hint of Plate weather, and to-day an awesome fiasco of
the same. The hint came last evening between the twilight and the dark.
There was practically no wind, and the _Elsinore_, just maintaining
steerage way by means of intermittent f