CHAPTER VI

Doubloons.

Luncheon over, the Lady Calypso, with a stately inclination of her lovely head, left us to our wine and our cigars.  For, as I realised, we were very much in England, in spite of all the orange trees and the palms, the England of two or three generations ago, and but seldom nowadays to be found in England itself.

The time had come, after the Homeric formula which my host had whimsically applied to the situation, for the far-travelled guest to declare himself, and I saw in my host’s eye a courteous invitation to begin.  While his fantastic tongue had gone a-wagging from China to Peru, I had been pondering what account to give of myself, and I had decided, for various reasons—­of which the Lady Calypso was, of course, first, but the open-hearted charm of her father a close second—­to tell him the whole of my story.  Whatever his and her particular secret was, it was evident to me that it was an innocent and honourable one; and, besides, I may have had a notion that before long I was to have a family interest in it.  So I began—­starting in with a little prelude in the manner of my host, just to enter into the spirit of the game: 

“My Lord Alcinoues; your guest, the far wanderer, having partaken of your golden hospitality, is now fain to open his heart to you, and tell you of himself and his race, his home and his loved ones across the wine-dark sea, and such of his adventures as may give pleasure to your ears” ... though, having no talents in that direction, I was glad enough to abandon my lame attempt at his Homeric style for a plain straightforward narrative of the events of the past three months.

I had not, however, proceeded very far, when, with a courteous raising of his hand, King Alcinoues suggested a pause.

“If you would not mind,” he said, “I would like my daughter to hear this too, for it is of the very stuff of romantic adventure in which she delights.  She is a brave girl, and, as I often tell her, would have made a very spirited dare-devil boy, if she hadn’t happened to be born a girl.”

This phrase seemed to flash a light upon the questionings that had stirred at the back of my mind since I had first heard that voice in Sweeney’s store.

“By the way, dear King,” I said, assuming a casual manner, “do you happen to have a son?”

“No!” he answered, “Calypso is my only child.”

“Very strange!” I said, “we met a whimsical lad in our travels whom I would have sworn was her brother.”

“That’s odd!” said the “King” imperturbably, “but no!  I have no son”; and he seemed to say it with a certain sadness.

Then Calypso came in to join my audience, having, meanwhile, taken the opportunity of twining a scarlet hibiscus among her luxuriant dark curls.  I should certainly have told the story better without her, yet I was glad—­how glad!—­to have her seated there, an attentive presence in a simple gown, white as the seafoam—­from which, there was no further doubt in my mind, she had magically sprung.