I asked myself how much they had shared in common.  To these Replacers Kings Port had opened no doors; they and their automobile had skirted around the outside of all things.  And if Charley knew about the wedding, he also knew that it had been already twice postponed.  He, too, could have said, as Miss Eliza had once said to me, “The cake is not baked yet.”  The General’s talk to me (I felt as I took in how his health had been the centred point) was probably the result of previous arrangements with Hortense herself; and she quite as certainly inspired whatever she allowed him to say to Charley.

As for Kitty, she knew that her brother was “set”; she always came back to that.

If Hortense found this Sunday morning a passage of particularly delicate steering, she showed it in no way, unless by that heightened radiance and triumph of beauty which I had seen in her before.  No; the splendor of the day, the luxuries of the Hermana, the conviviality of the Replacers—­all melted the occasion down to an ease and enjoyment in which even John Mayrant, with his grave face, was not perceptible, unless, like myself, one watched him.

It was my full expectation that we should now get under way and proceed among the various historic sights of Kings Port harbor, but of this I saw no signs anywhere on board the Hermana.  Abeam of the foremast her boat booms remained rigged out on port and starboard, her boats riding to painters, while her crew wore a look as generally lounging as that of her passengers.  Beverly Rodgers told me the reason:  we had no pilot; the negro Waterman engaged for this excursion in the upper waters had failed of appearance, and when Charley was for looking up another, Kitty, Bohm, and Gazza had dissuaded him.

“Kitty,” said Beverly, “told me she didn’t care about the musty old forts and things, anyhow.”

I looked at Kitty, and heard her tongue ticking away, like the little clock she was; she had her Bohm, she had her nautical costume and her Remsen cooler.  These, with the lunch that would come in time, were enough for her.

“But it was such a good chance!” I exclaimed in disappointment

“Chance for what, old man?”

“To see everything—­the forts, the islands—­and it’s beautiful, you know, all the way to the navy yard.”

Beverly followed my glance to where the gay company was sitting among the cracked ice, and bottles, and cigar boxes, chattering volubly, with its back to the scenery.  He gave his laisser-faire chuckle, and laid a hand on my shoulder.  “Don’t worry ’em with forts and islands, old boy!  They know what they want.  No living breed on earth knows better what it wants.”

“Well, they don’t get it.”

“Ho, don’t they?”

“The cold fear of ennui gnaws at their vitals this minute.”

Shrill laughter from Kitty and Gazza served to refute my theory.

“Of course, very few know what’s the matter with them,” I added.  “You seldom spot an organic disease at the start.”