To Varney, the simple act drove home with great force the stark fact that he was face to face with his business at last. Peter, holding out his hand to say good-bye, was struck to speculation by the look of that eye. "Well, good luck, Larry!" "In heaven's name--what does that mean?" "Hanged if I know," said Peter, frankly. "I'll see you in New York--if not sooner." With which cryptic observation he clattered down the stairs to the gig. Varney beckoned the sailing-master from the quarter-deck. "I am returning to New York, as I told you, Ferguson, with the young lady, Mr. Carstairs's daughter. Start as soon as possible." The sailing-master stared at the deck. "Ready at once, sir." Mrs. Ferguson's fondness for classical poetry was no part of any stage make-believe. Varney, having found her the day before sitting on a coil of rope with Mr. Pope's _Odyssey_ from the ship's library, had conceived a veneration for her taste. Now, as he drew near them again, she was telling Mary that though Tennyson was fine for the purty language, it was really Browning who understood the human heart. And down in the engine room they had everything ready for the bell. "Have you two settled the poets' hash yet?" asked Varney. "I hope you didn't make the mistake of preferring Tennyson to Browning, Miss Carstairs? Thank you very much for entertaining our guest so nicely, Mrs. Ferguson." "What a wonder that woman is!" said Mary, looking back at her as they walked away. "I had thought that I was rather good at liking poetry, but she leaves me feeling like the dunce at the kindergarten." She turned and looked out over the water, caught anew by the shining landscape. They stood side by side in the shade of the wide low awning. Half a mile to their left huddled the town, whither the others were already on their way; a few hundred yards behind them stood the big white Carstairs house, handsomely cresting the hill. From many miles to the northward a breeze danced down the river, and played capriciously over their faces, and so whisked on about its business. All the world looked smiling and very good. Suddenly a bell tinkled. There was a slight splash, a faint rumble and quiver. Varney laughed. "The passion for poetry," said he, "is a curious and complex thing. Its origin is shrouded in the earliest dawn of civilization. It appears in man's first instinctive gropings toward written self-expression--" "Why," said Mary, in sudden surprise, "_we are going!"_ CHAPTER XVIII CAPTIVATING MARY So Elbert Carstairs's dream had come true, and his daughter was going home to him at his desire. She stood on his yacht, as truly a prisoner as though she wore a ball and chain; and the beat of the engines, already gathering speed, was driving her straight toward that dock in Harlem whither he, within a very short time, would be driving down to meet her. "Going? Of course we are," said Varney.