THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
ing with him what he should and should not spend, ordering him to do this or that, certain that he would always obey her, which he always did. Accustomed as she was to ruling children, it fell to her easily to dominate this Hercules who was only a child grown up. It never occurred to her to peer behind the curtain of this apparent docility. Besides, the experience had all the thrilling exhilaration of stroking a purring tiger; for while she might in time completely forget that morning in Venice, she would never forget the cold, murderous fire in William's eyes.
Eight o'clock! She sprang off the bed, lively and eager. They would be leaving for Port Said at nine-thirty, and she hadn't a bit of packing done. She ran to the window—sunshine, always sunshine. What a wonderful world it was! She began humming the spinning-song from "The Flying Dutchman," and turned to her suit-cases. It was an actual fact that these cases were visibly shrinking or else her clothes were growing. Soon she would be forced to buy a third case.
When everything was snugly packed away and not so much as a hairpin forgotten, she picked up William's little bag of gold and dropped it into the pocket of her skirt, pinning the aperture. Not only his mother, but his banker, too! She laughed. The bag was heavy and clumsy, but, once aboard, she could turn it over to William or the purser.
At eight-thirty she was in the lobby, searching for William. He was nowhere in sight, and she considered this rather unusual. So she found a
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