The Emily Emmins Papers. Carolyn Wells

the morning and not a fellow-traveller was studied.

      “This won’t do,” I said to myself, severely, after luncheon. “Here you are, not a hint of sea-sickness, the day is perfect, you know how to adjust your rug, and all conditions are favorable. You must study your fellow-travellers.”

      But the afternoon showed little improvement on the morning. As a result of desperate effort, I scrutinized one lady and decided to call her the Lady with the Green Bag.

      It wasn’t a very clever characterization, but it was, at least, founded on fact.

      Another I conscientiously contemplated, and finally dubbed her the Lady Who Isn’t an Actress. This was rather a negative description, but I based it on the neatness of her vanity-bag and the carelessness of her belt, and I am sure it was true.

      The Clucking Mother was easily recognized, and a pink-cheeked and white-handed young man, who attempted to talk to me, I snubbed, and then to myself I designated him as Simple Simon.

      I wasn’t really rude to him, and I fully intended to make acquaintances among the passengers later on; but I am methodical, and after I had all my other tasks attended to, I hoped to have two or three days left for social intercourse.

      Simple Simon.

      But after a time the chair next mine was left vacant, and then a laughing young girl seated herself in it.

      Apparently it didn’t belong to her, and she sat down there with the express purpose of talking to me. My arduous study of my fellow-travellers had somewhat wearied me, and her sudden and uninvited appearance disturbed that serene calm which I had supposed unassailable, and so I angrily characterized her in my mind as a Bold-Faced Jig.

      This name was so apt that it really pleased me, and I involuntarily smiled in appreciation of my appreciation of her.

      So sympathetic was she (as I afterward discovered) that she smiled too, and then I couldn’t, in common decency, be rude to her. She chatted away, and before I knew it I was charmed with her. I didn’t change the name I had mentally bestowed on her, but, instead, I told her of it, and it delighted her beyond measure. I told her, too, how I intended to devote the next two days to planning my summer trip, then a day for writing letters, and after that I hoped to play bridge, or otherwise hobnob socially with certain people whom I had mentally selected for that purpose.

      The Bold-Faced Jig laughed heartily at this.

      “Haven’t you any idea where you’re going to travel?” she asked.

      “Not the slightest.”

      “Well, let me advise you——”

      “Oh, please don’t!” I cried. “I left my planning until now in order to get away from all advisers. I must decide for myself. I know just what I want, and I can’t bear to be interfered with.”

      The B.-F. J. looked amazed at first, and then she laughed.

      “All right,” she said. “Now listen, Miss Emmins. I think you’re delightful, and I’m going to help you all I can by not advising you. But if you’ve not finished your itinerary plans in two days, mayn’t I tell you then what I was going to advise?”

      “Yes,” I said, with dignity and decision, “if you will keep away from me for two days, and do all you can to keep others away.”

      She promised, and it was more of a task than it might seem, for as I sat in my deck-chair, or, oftener, at a table in the library, surrounded by Baedekers, time-tables, maps, guide-books, and Hare’s Walks in London, many of the socially inclined or curious-minded paused to make a tentative remark. My replies were so coolly polite that they rarely ventured on a second observation, but I soon discovered that my laughing friend had told her comrades what I was doing, and they awaited the result.

      It is strange what trivialities will interest the idle minds of those who dawdle about in the library of an ocean steamer.

      Jane would occasionally come and stand by me, saying wisely, “Are you still making your itinnery?”

      When I said yes, she sighed and smiled and ran away, being desirous not to bother.

      The first morning I engaged in this work, I read interestedly of picture-galleries and architectural specialties. That afternoon my interest waned, and I studied time-tables and statistical information. The next morning I grew sick of the whole performance and, bundling the books and maps away, I went out to my deck-chair, and idled away the hours in waking dreams that never were on sea or land.

      That afternoon the Bold-Faced Jig approached me.

      “It’s all over,” I said. “I’ve capitulated. I make no plans while I’m on this blessed ocean. It’s wicked to do anything at all but to do nothing.”

      “And don’t you want my advice?” she asked, laughing still.

      “I don’t care,” I answered. “You can voice your advice if you choose. I sha’n’t listen to it, much less follow it.”

      Her girlish laughter rang out again. “That was my advice,” she said. “I was going to tell you not to plan any trip while you are at sea. Just enjoy the days as they come and go; don’t count them; don’t do anything at all but just be.

      “I’m not through yet,” she went on. “Don’t write any letters or read any books. Don’t study human nature, and of all things don’t voluntarily make acquaintances. If they happen along, as I did, chat a bit if you choose, and when they pass on, forget them.”

      And so I took advice after all. I made no plans, I made no abstruse diagnoses of human character, I made no acquaintances save such as casually happened of themselves. And the days passed in a sort of rose-colored haze, as indefinite as a foggy sunrise, and as satisfying as a painted nocturne of Whistler’s. And so, my first impressions of my first ocean crossing are indeed enviable.

      The trip from Liverpool to London I found to be a green glimpse of England in the shape of a biograph. But the word green, as we say it in our haste, is utterly inadequate to apply to the color of the English landscape. Though of varying shades, it is always green to the n^th power; it is a saturated solution of green; it is a green that sinks into the eye with a sensation of indelibility. And as this green flew by me, I watched it from the window of a car most disappointingly like our own Pullmans.

      I had hoped for the humorous absurdities of the compartmented English trains. I had almost expected to see sitting opposite me a gentleman dressed in white paper, and I involuntarily watched for a guard who should look at me through a telescope, and say “You’re travelling the wrong way.”

      For my most definite impressions of English railway carriages had been gained from my “Alice,” and I was annoyed to find myself booked for a large arm-chair seat in a parlor car, with my luggage checked to its London destination on “the American plan”!

      What, pray, was the use of coming abroad, if one was to have all the comforts of home?

      As if to add to the unsatisfactoriness of my first impressions of English travel, I found myself sitting opposite a young American woman.

      We faced each other across a small table, covered with what seemed to be green baize, but was more likely the reflection of the insistent landscape.

      The lady was one of those hopeless, helpless, newly rich, that affect so strongly the standing of Americans in Europe.

      She was blatantly pretty, and began to talk at once, apparently quite oblivious of the self-evident fact that I wanted to absorb in silence that flying green, to which her own nature was evidently quite impervious.

      “Your first trip?” she said, though I never knew how she guessed it. “My! it must be quite an event