He thought that it would be an easy matter now to get possession of this capricious and free-mannered woman.  “Sure thing, Captain!” The rapid triumphs that he had always had in his journeys assured him that there was not the slightest doubt of success.  It was enough for him to see the widow’s smile, her passionate eyes, and the little tricks of malicious coquetry with which she responded to his gallant advances.  “Forward, sea-wolf!"...  He took her hand while she was speaking of the beauty of the solitary sea, and the hand yielded without protest to his caressing fingers.  The doctor was far away and, sighing hypocritically, he encircled Freya’s waist with his other arm while he inclined his head upon her open throat as though he were going to kiss her pearls.

In spite of his strength, he found himself energetically repulsed and saw Freya freed from his arms, two steps away, looking upon him with hostile eyes that he had not noticed before.

“None of your child’s play, Captain!...  It is useless with me....  You are just wasting time.”

And she said no more.  Her stiffness and her silence during the rest of the walk made the sailor understand the enormity of his mistake.  In vain he tried to keep beside the widow.  She always maneuvered that the doctor should come between the two.

Upon returning to the station they took refuge from the heat in a little waiting room with dusty velvet divans.  In order to beguile the time while waiting for the train, Freya took from her handbag a gold cigarette-case and the light smoke of Egyptian tobacco charged with opium whirled among the shafts of sunlight from the partly-opened windows.

Ferragut, who had gone out in order to ascertain the exact hour of the arrival of the train, on returning stopped near the door, amazed at the animation with which the two ladies were speaking in a new language.  Recollections of Hamburg and Bremen came surging up in his memory.  His companions were talking German with the ease of a familiar idiom.  At sight of the sailor, they instantly continued their conversation in English.

Wishing to take part in the dialogue, he asked Freya how many languages she spoke.

“Very few,—­no more than eight.  The doctor, perhaps, knows twenty.  She knows the languages of people who passed away many centuries ago.”

And the young woman said this with gravity, without looking at him, as though she had lost forever that smile of a light woman which had so deceived Ferragut.

In the train she became more like a human being, even losing her offended manner.  They were soon going to separate.  The doctor grew less and less approachable as the cars rolled towards Salerno.  It was the chilliness that appears among companions of a day, when the hour of separation approaches and each one draws into himself, not to be seen any more.