THE SIAMESE CAT
marked to Scarlett, "She's making a good thirteen knots to-night, do you know?"
Whatever hopes Owen might have had for that evening were disappointed; for Miss Holborow stayed in the stuffy saloon and played picquet dutifully with her aunt. Walking seven miles round the deck,—passing from the mystery of vast moonlit space and a witch-fire ocean of phosphorous, astern, into the swaying lantern-light amidships—he could see the two women through one porthole, and through the next, in the little hazy smoking-room, the big countenance of Borkman, presiding radiantly over a circle of yellow glasses.
"He has cheek enough," thought Scarlett. "I'll have to ask the captain about him some time."
Then came a whole morning of delight. Soon after breakfast, he found himself being introduced to the aunt, and presently sitting in a
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