"Good!" said Saltash lightly. "I may be late, or--more probably--very
early. Leave the gangway for me! I'll let you know when I'm aboard."
He got up as if he moved on springs and leaned against the rail, looking
down quizzically at the man who sat stolidly smoking in the deck-chair.
No two people could have formed a stronger contrast--the yacht's captain,
fair-bearded, with the features of a Viking--the yacht's owner, dark,
alert, with a certain French finesse about him that gave a strange charm
to a personality that otherwise might have been merely fantastic.
Suddenly he laughed. "Do you know, Larpent, I often think to myself what
odd tricks Fate plays? You for instance--you, the captain of a private
yacht when you ought to be roving the high seas in a Flying Dutchman! You
probably were a few generations ago."
"Ah!" Larpent said, through a cloud of smoke. "Life isn't what it was."
"It's an infernal fraud, most of it," said Saltash. "Always promising and
seldom fulfilling!"
"No good expecting too much," said Larpent.
"True!" said Saltash. "On the other hand it isn't always wise to be too
easily satisfied." His look became suddenly speculative. "Have you ever
been in love, Larpent?"
The big man in the deck-chair made a sharp movement and spilt some
cigar-ash on his coat.
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