But tell me, Miss Dent, does she always sleep out loud
like this?"
"Not always. It usually comes when she is taking what she calls
forty winks."
"Then may a merciful heaven prevent her from taking eighty," Weldon
observed piously. "Still, the sleeping cat--"
"Fox," she corrected him promptly.
"Fox be it, then. Miss Arthur seems to me to be feline, rather than
vulpine, though." Bending forward, the girl studied her chaperon
thoughtfully.
"She really isn't so bad, Mr. Weldon. She means well. It is only
that I don't like tight frizzles and a hymn-book in combination.
People should always have one point of absolute worldliness."
"Aren't fizzles--that is what you called the thatch over her
eyebrows; isn't it?--aren't they worldly?"
Ethel Dent laughed with the consciousness of a woman's superior
knowledge.
"It depends upon the season," she replied enigmatically, as she
rose.
It was five days later that Ethel closed and locked her steamer
trunk. Leaving Miss Arthur to grapple alone with the cabin bags, the
girl went out on deck. Regardless of the glaring sunshine of New
Year morning, groups of people were dotted along the rail, staring
up at the flat top and seamy face of cloud-capped Table Mountain.
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