The tapered masts stretched upwards at a rakish angle, and the
rigging seemed like spun silk. No sails were set; the yacht was
under steam, and doing about seven or eight knots. She judged that
it was a boat of a hundred tons or so, probably Clyde-built, and not
more than two or three years old.
No one was to be seen on deck except the man at the wheel: this
man wore a blue jersey; but there was neither name nor initial on
the jersey, nor was there a name on the white life-buoys lashed to
the main rigging, nor on the polished dinghy which hung on the
starboard davits. She called to the man, and called again, in a
feeble voice, but the steerer took no notice of her, and continued
his quiet song as though nothing else existed in the universe save
the yacht, the sea, the sun, and himself.
Then her eyes swept the outline of the land from which they were
hastening, and she could just distinguish a lighthouse and a great
white irregular dome, which she recognized as the Kursaal at
Ostend, that gorgeous rival of the gaming palace at Monte Carlo.
So she was leaving Ostend. The rays of the sun fell on her
caressingly, like a restorative. All around the water was changing
from wonderful greys and dark blues to still more wonderful pinks
and translucent unearthly greens; the magic kaleidoscope of dawn
was going forward in its accustomed way, regardless of the
vicissitudes of mortals.
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