Chapter X: The Girl in the Yellow Gown

The same evening, on the wide, spotless deck of an ocean liner, sat Captain Barton, talking to a dashing brunette. She was dressed in a striking, low-cut yellow gown as conspicuous as her rather audacious self. Her tapering fingers held a cigarette and her very red lips blew ringlets of pale, thin smoke into the warm summer night.

Dinner had been over an hour ago, promenading had ceased, and from the other side of the boat sounded laughter, the hum of voices, dancing, and the strain of an impudent two-step.

“Would you care to dance, Betty?” inquired Captain Barton, carefully flicking away the ashes from his fragrant cigar.

“No, thanks, not to-night.”

Her companion crossed one black knee nonchalantly over the other well-formed limb--Captain Barton had very good limbs and he seemed to be aware of it.

“Can you believe that this is our last night on board, and that we shall be in Melbourne to-morrow?” said the girl, turning her pretty, dark, insolent head towards her companion.

“No, indeed,” replied the man at her side, hailing a steward who was passing and ordering two liqueurs; then he continued to the girl, “You have made the time pass so jolly fast--I can’t believe we are nearly there.”

“Will you be staying in Melbourne long?” asked Betty, gazing with leisurely abstraction into the soft darkness beyond the brilliant lights of the ship.

“No,” he said a little evasively. “I must catch the next boat to Tasmania; I believe they run almost daily.”

The steward brought the order and Captain Barton paused to sign his wine card.

“A day or two more or less can’t make much difference,” suggested the girl, with a glance at her yellow satin slippers.

“Unfortunately, in this case it might,” replied her companion, moving a little uneasily.

The brunette took a sip from her glass, then laughed suddenly. “I can’t imagine you in little Tassy--you and that small, antiquated island don’t blend!”

“I suppose it will be beastly quiet over there,” the man observed ruefully.

“Dead slow! It’s the kind of place people resort to when they have been going the pace a bit--splendid for neurotics, invalids and babies--nothing to do but watch the clouds and wait for dinner.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Captain Barton, as he emptied his glass.

“So you had better change your mind and have a few nights at the Opera in Melbourne before you shut yourself up in that convalescent home.”

“Oh, I daresay I shall survive--won’t have to stay long, I trust.”

“You expect to fix up your--business--quickly?”

Her companion stroked his smooth chin. “With a little decent luck--yes.”

“Shall I wish you good luck? You haven’t asked me to, you know.”

“Please do.”

The girl made no response. She sat gazing on the limpid, phosphorescent waters with a strange expression in her dark eyes.

“Why so pensive to-night?” said the man, turning to her with a smile. “Is it the thought of leaving the ship?”

“Good gracious, no! I hate boats. I was only philosophising.”

“What about?”

“How curious you are, Captain Barton.”

“Man is always curious where a pretty girl is concerned.”

“Yes, man is curious when he is interested, but he is never profound,” she said, crossing one yellow silk ankle over the other.

“You don’t want him profound, surely--he would be a confounded nuisance to a girl with your sentiments.”

“What do you know about my sentiments?” she asked, suddenly leaning her head back on a pale blue _crêpe de Chine_ cushion.

“You have been generous enough to give me--samples, and I have been testing their practical value.”

“And what is the result?” she inquired, letting her head slide along the cushion a little towards him.

“I think your sentiments are just the thing--they make you a ripping companion!”

“You don’t like prudes, do you?” she said, with an odd flash in her dark eyes.

He laughed lightly. “Are there any left? One never meets them.”

“After all, I believe that you really like them,” she said, with a probing look from under her lashes.

“How can I like what I never see?”

There was a short silence, then Ralph moved his long deck-chair a little closer to Betty’s and said, “But you haven’t told me yet what you were philosophising about.”

“Did I promise to tell you?” and she put a hand up to feel if the yellow velvet band binding her black hair was still in place.

“No; but you might as well.”

She drummed with her tapering fingers on the arm of her chair. “Well, if you will have it, I was thinking what a rotten world this is for women; everything in it favours men--all our social laws and conventions--everything!”

Captain Barton looked down at his black silk socks. “I don’t see that--in fact, I think it is all the other way. Social laws make men wait on women, see to their comforts and put them first in everything.”

The brunette shrugged her arrogant shoulders. “In small things, yes. Society throws women a sop by piling cushions at her back and handing her muffins and tea; but in all things that really matter man has the advantage on his side.”

“Will you give me some instances?”

“To man is given all power of selection. He chooses the girls he will flirt with, his partners at dances; and he chooses his companion for life--woman is allowed no choice at all.”

“But she need not meekly acquiesce in man’s selection; she can say Yes or No when he asks for dances and--other things.”

The brunette pouted impatiently. “And what is that? Man is granted the power to make love, woo, ask. If only women were granted that privilege they would oftener have what they want than they do at present.”

“But women can win the men they want, too. They can be so deucedly charming that they send a fellow fairly crazy over them.”

His companion shrugged again. “That is a very negative privilege--give a woman a clear field to make honest and open love, and we should soon have a change in things. The world often accuses women of not being as straight and honourable as men; but how can they, when they are never given a chance to be direct and frank? They are taught to hide their feelings, and the result is, that they must gain their ends by subtle methods; if they fall in love they must not show a man a straight and honest affection, they must wait till he approaches them, and may only try to draw him to them in little coquettish, artful ways which in the long run make women a little sly and underhand. She loves as strongly as a man, and she is just as eager to possess what she loves as he is; why not give her the right to win in an open, square way what she wants?”

“Why don’t you start a social reform on those lines?” suggested her companion half-absently. To-morrow they would be in port; the day after he would start for Tasmania and--Iris. The girl at his side had amused him and kept him from being dull on the voyage; but now he would need her no longer, and the dazzling Iris Dearn loomed large on his horizon again.

“Yes, it would be interesting--I wonder how you would feel if I began with you?”

“Began with me--how?” he said abstractedly, still thinking of the girl he was following to Tasmania.

“Ralph, how stupid you are! Why, begin to make real, honest love to you, of course.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Captain Barton, sitting up straight, “that would be a ripping game--jolly ending to our trip--I believe you could do it, too!”

“Yes, I believe I could; you have given me some valuable hints, you know, and I am quick at picking up things--we Australians are.”

Captain Barton winced a little. “You didn’t mind the hints, did you? Ye gods, how could a man endure a voyage if he didn’t make love!”

“Do you always make love on your trips?”

“What else is there to do?”

“And you never become--profound?”

“Jolly girls don’t like profound men.”

“You haven’t really answered my question.”

“I don’t think there is anything else to say. But,” he continued, in a different voice, “come and have a waltz and give up all this philosophising; have a good time while you can, that is my philosophy. Now come.”

“I think I would rather go up on the top deck for a stroll.”

“Brilliant notion! Then you can begin your social reform on me, and you shall have the whole evening to practise in.”

“How amiable you are, Captain Barton; perhaps with a few more hints from you--such an expert on the subject--and a little practice I shall be proficient by the time the man who really matters comes into my life.”

Ralph rose from his chair, helped the brunette to her feet, and together they walked down the deck; soon afterwards the soldier’s tall figure in his immaculate evening dress and his daringly attired companion disappeared up the narrow stairway leading to the upper regions.