Miss Vance whispered, “You handled that well, Van.”
I looked into the china-blue eyes, wishing I might live there-no pleasanter place could be easily imagined. “Did I, Vance?”
Still speaking so low that only I could hear her, she said, “You dispensed of them without insulting them-it’s nice to know your acid tongue can be reigned in.”
From the balcony the strained strains of “The End of a Perfect Day” wafted unsettlingly down, replacing Strauss with the inexplicably popular treacle of songwriter Carrie Jacobs Bond.
“The orchestra certainly knows how to kill one’s appetite,” I said to Miss Vance.
And a familiar male voice nearby blurted: “How wonderful! One of my favorite tunes, by my favorite composer!”
Elbert Hubbard had arrived. Pausing just behind us, the homespun excuse for a philosopher was escorting his wife, Alice, apparently in search of a table. Mrs. Hubbard was slender and not unattractive, in a scrubbed sort of way, though the woman seemed ill at ease in her chocolate-color satin evening gown, which had been in style once. Hubbard wore the required tuxedo, but one of his trademark floppy silk ties flowed down over his white shirt front, in seeming protest. With his shoulder-length gray-touched hair-so much like his wife’s-he cut a distinctive if bizarre figure in the midst of so much conservative wealth.
Then he noticed Madame DePage, who had turned to smile and nod to him. They were apparently acquainted-or at least had been introduced, at some point-because Hubbard and his wife went to her like iron shavings to a magnet.
“Marie,” he said, “how lovely you look. . I hope you can find time, on this voyage, to sit with me and exchange ideas and thoughts.”
“I would be delighted, Fra Hubbard,” she said.
I was dismayed to think so intelligent a woman could be swayed by this master of middle-brow blather.
“I am afraid I would have little to discuss,” Madame DePage said frankly, glancing about the room with mild distaste, “with these rich.”
Hubbard shrugged and his thick locks bounced on his shoulders. “Men are rich only as they give, Madame-you are the rich one in this room. He. . or she. . who gives great service gets great rewards.”
“Someone should follow him around,” I whispered to Miss Vance, “and sew that stuff on samplers.”
She gave me a reproving look, but her eyes were laughing.
Madame DePage introduced the Hubbards to Miss Pope and her young lapdog, and the bird-like female inquired as to the great Hubbard’s opinion of paranormal research.
“My opinion is favorable,” he said. “The supernatural is the natural not yet understood.”
That brightened Miss Pope’s eyes like a Hallowe’en pumpkin whose candle had just been lit.
But then Hubbard moved on-he seemed incapable of real conversation: He was strictly in the aphorism business. And his wife hadn’t said a word, merely a pleasant appendage of his. They made their way to a table beneath the orchestra, which had just begun playing another Carrie Jacobs Bond number, “Just-a Wearyin’ for You,” a forlornly lachrymose affair that had Hubbard looking skyward, as if God Himself were responsible for this dismal dirge.
“Why would a man so determinedly sanguine,” I asked Miss Vance, speaking of Hubbard, “be prone to such simple-minded sentimental slop?”
Miss Vance just looked at me. “Perhaps I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“Your ability to control that tongue of yours.”
I smiled. “You seem to have an abnormal interest in my tongue, Vance.”
Another woman might have blushed; Miss Vance merely smiled wickedly and said, “That remains to be seen. . Have you noticed that Captain Turner is at the head of the captain’s table?”
“Why, is that a surprise?”
“It’s well-known that Bowler Bill rarely makes such an appearance-he delegates the social duties to Staff Captain Anderson.”
I nodded. “And Staff Captain Anderson is conspicuous in his absence.”
She nodded back. “Supervising the search of the ship, no doubt.”
“Shouldn’t the ship’s detective be accompanying him?”
She frowned, shook her head, letting me know that-even in a hushed conversation like ours-mentioning her function as the Lusitania’s dick was undesirable.
Still, she answered my question. “I’m travelling with Madame DePage-and I dine with Madame DePage.”
Glancing at the centrally placed captain’s table, I noted that-of the celebrities aboard, specifically those who’d received warning telegrams-only Vanderbilt and his friend Williamson were sharing Turner’s company. I asked Miss Vance if she recognized any of the other diners at the coveted central table, and three of them proved to be shipbuilders; a tall, dignified woman in a dark gown was (Miss Vance said) Lady Marguerite Allan, wife of Sir Montagu Allan, heir to a Canadian shipping concern, whom Lady Allan and her precociously lovely teenaged daughters were sailing to meet in England.
Vanderbilt and Williamson were listening to Captain Turner’s every word as if seated at Socrates’ knee; everyone at the table was fawningly attentive to the captain, who was taking a game stab at playing the genial host.
“Amusing, isn’t it?” I said to Miss Vance. “If old Bowler Bill weren’t in that gold-braided uniform, say a plain blue serge suit, those people wouldn’t look twice at him-he’d just be another provincial with a queer north-country twang.”
Miss Vance glanced over and she laughed a little. “Cruel but true. . and the wealthier they are, the more attentively they listen.”
“Look at Vanderbilt hang on every word, as if Bowler Bill were Admiral Nelson himself.”
“On the other hand,” she said with a shrug, “the Lucy is possibly the most famous ship in the world. . and Turner is her master.”
I granted her that. “He’s the highest authority we have. Our very lives are in the hands of that old salt.”
That seemed to trouble Miss Vance, who-after a pause-asked, “Do you know how the captain reacted when he heard of the stowaways?”
“Outrage?”
“Hardly. He showed no surprise at all-merely said in his forty-five years at sea he regarded stowaways as just another shipboard nuisance.”
“Like Elbert Hubbard,” I said, “or an orchestra prone to playing Carrie Jacobs Bond.”
That also made her laugh a little, and then we were examining the embossed card that was this evening’s menu. Under a gilt wreath encircling the Cunard flag, a superb bill of fare included oysters on the half shell or hors d’oeuvres followed by soup, and a choice of fish ranging from deviled whitebait to Supreme de Barbue Florentine, with entrees including braised gosling, sauteed chicken, and haunches of mutton. For a man who’d been reduced to living on coffee and sandwiches (that Bronx rooming house was still a too vivid memory), such fine cuisine would make a welcome change.
Between courses, Madame DePage announced she’d be attending a concert in the music room, after dinner, and would be pleased if anyone at the table would care to join her. The Royal Welsh Male Chorus was aboard, it seemed, returning home after touring the U.S. and Canada.
“The Welsh, you know,” she said, that charming accent almost making the offer palatable, “are a race of singers marvelous.”
Everyone nodded and said they would love to join her. . with the exception of myself, who stayed mute, and Miss Vance, who said, “It’s been rather a long day, and I’m afraid I’m quite fatigued-would you mind terribly if I retired to the stateroom?”
Madame DePage didn’t mind at all.
So I walked Miss Vance to the Regal Suite, which was so near my regal cubbyhole, when she presented me with a pleasant surprise. “I was hoping,” she said, “you might join me for an after-dinner drink.”
“I would love to. If madame won’t mind. .”