We pine to know who and what he is and where he is going. Yesterday I
found myself beside him at tea. I might not have existed for all the
notice he took of me. "Speak to him," said G. in my ear. "You don't
dare!"
Of course after that I had to, so pinching G's arm to give myself
courage, I said in a small voice, "Are you enjoying the voyage?"
He turned, regarded me with his sad prominent eyes. "Do I look as if
I enjoyed it?" asked this Monsieur Melancholy, and went back to his
bread-and-butter. G. choked, and I finished my tea hurriedly and in
silence.
Nearly everyone on board seems nice and willing to be pleasant. I
am on smiling terms with most and speaking terms with many, but one
really sees very little of the people outside one's own little set. It
is odd how people drift together and make cliques. There are eight in
our particular set. Colonel and Mrs. Crawley, Major and Mrs. Wilmot;
Captain Gordon, Mr. Brand, G., and myself. The Crawleys, the Wilmots,
and Captain Gordon are going back after furlough; Mr. Brand and G. and
I are going only for pleasure and the cold weather. Our table is much
the merriest in the saloon. Mrs. Crawley is a fascinating woman; I
never tire watching her. Very pretty, very smart with a pretty wit,
she has the most delightfully gay, infectious laugh, which contrasts
oddly with her curiously sad, unsmiling eyes, Mrs. Wilmot has a
Madonna face. I don't mean one of those silly, fat-faced Madonnas one
sees in the Louvre and elsewhere, but one's own idea of the Madonna;
the kind of face, as someone puts it, that God must love.
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