CHAPTER III
A Crossing of Swords
WHEN Drysdale opened his window next morning, he found the sun shining from a sky unclouded and the air warm with the promise of spring. It called him in a way not to be resisted and he stepped out on the little balcony which ran beneath the window; then he caught the odour of a cigarette, and turned to see Tremaine smiling at him.
“Good-morning!” cried Tremaine. “A beautiful morning, isn’t it? Won’t you join me?”
It was impossible to refuse him; but Drysdale had no thought of refusal—he rather welcomed the opportunity to cross swords with his rival, to test his skill, to find out in how far that air of triumph was justified by the strength behind it. So he took the little cylinder of paper as he returned the greeting, and sat down on the sill of his window.
“But how grey the sea is,” continued Tremaine. “It is not so in the tropics—it is blue—oh, such a blue!”
“You seem to be an early riser,” observed Drysdale, who had thought to find himself the first astir.
“It is a habit one learns at St. Pierre. The dawn is, there, the only pleasant portion of the day—one rises to burn incense to it.”
“You have lived long at St. Pierre?”
154
