ess I'll get a bite to eat."

CHAPTER XXXI

The more I see of Miss West the more she pleases me. Explain it in terms
of propinquity, or isolation, or whatever you will; I, at least, do not
attempt explanation. I know only that she is a woman and desirable. And
I am rather proud, in a way, to find that I am just a man like any man.
The midnight oil, and the relentless pursuit I have endured in the past
from the whole tribe of women, have not, I am glad to say, utterly
spoiled me.

I am obsessed by that phrase--a _woman and desirable_. It beats in my
brain, in my thought. I go out of my way to steal a glimpse of Miss West
through a cabin door or vista of hall when she does not know I am
looking. A woman is a wonderful thing. A woman's hair is wonderful. A
woman's softness is a magic.--Oh, I know them for what they are, and yet
this very knowledge makes them only the more wonderful. I know--I would
stake my soul--that Miss West has considered me as a mate a thousand
times to once that I have so considered her. And yet--she is a woman and
desirable.

And I find myself continually reminded of Richard Le Gallienne's
inimitable quatrain:

"Were I a woman, I would all day long
Sing my own beauty in some holy song,
Bend low before it, hushed and half afraid,
And say 'I am a woman' all day long."

Let me advise all philosophers suffering from world-sickness to take a
long sea voyage with a woman like Miss West.

In this narrative I shall call her "Miss West" no more. She has ceased
to be Miss West. She is Margaret. I do not think of her as Miss West. I
think of her as Margaret. It is a pretty word, a woman-word. What poet
must have created it! Margaret! I never tire of it. My tongue is
enamoured of it. Margaret West! What a name to conjure with! A name
provocative of dreams and mighty connotations. The history of our
westward-faring race is written in it. There is pride in it, and
dominion, and adventure, and conquest. When I murmur it I see visions of
lean, beaked ships, of winged helmets, and heels iron-shod of restless
men, royal lovers, royal adventurers, royal fighters. Yes, and even now,
in these latter days when the sun consumes us, still we sit in the high
seat of government and command.

Oh--and by the way--she is twenty-four years old. I asked Mr. Pike the
date of the _Dixie's_ collision with the river steamer in San Francisco
Bay. This occurred in 1901. Margar