roof, and when it ceased to patter it began to splash. It became so gloomy that one felt almost blinded in the unnatural darkness. Through the cabin windows, over which the water was running, one could scarcely see the vine-terraces and gardens on the banks of the river.
When I had finished my cigar I went to the saloon, in which not a seat was to be found, and it was so stuffy that I did not feel inclined to bring a camp-stool there, but went out into the lobby, where the stairs led up to the deck. A young lady, with two little girls, had seated herself here. I took down a camp-stool from the pile and, well wrapped up in my plaid, placed myself just opposite the stairs.
The fresh, damp air coming down was pleasant, though it often brought a shower-bath, the drops of which remained clinging to the woollen plaid. The upper steps were dripping with water; a pool had collected in a corner of a black tarpaulin which was spread over some luggage on deck, and a miniature fountain kept spirting up from it.
The young lady, seated on the other side of the saloon door, took a little book from her bag, and was soon lost to all around her.
She did not, however, have much peace, for the smaller child, an overdressed little girl, with flaxen curls, began to cry, and though, in a way, it was appropriate to the situation, the governess had to pacify her. "Lisbeth wants to hear more," the bigger girl said, and the little one confirmed this suggestion by tearfully saying, "More about Peter! More about Peter!"
"Oh, for shame, to let the strange gentleman see you like this, Lisbeth!" the lady whispered. "Do you think he cares to hear about Peter?"
The little one sobbed, sucked her forefinger, and looked
