After a while, to calm her brain, excited by the evenings thronging impressions and by the new--or, rather, reviewed--ambitions born of them, Susan rose and went softly out on deck, in her nightgown of calico slip.Because of the breeze the mosquitoes did not trouble her there, and she stood a long time watching the town's few faint lights--watching the stars, the thronging stars of the Milky Way--dreaming--dreaming--dreaming.
Yesterday had almost faded from her, for youth lives only in tomorrow--youth in tomorrow, age in yesterday, and none of us in today which is all we really have.And she, with her wonderful health of body meaning youth as long as it lasted, she would certainly be young until she was very old--would keep her youth--her dreams--her living always in tomorrow.She was dreaming of her first real tomorrow, now.She would work hard at this wonderful profession--_her_ profession!--would be humble and attentive; and surely the day must come when she too would feel upon her heart the intoxicating beat of those magic waves of applause!
Susan, more excited than ever, slipped softly into the cabin and stole into her curtained berth.Like the soughing of the storm above the whimper of the tortured leaves the stentorian snorings of two of the sleepers resounded above the noise of the mosquitoes.She had hardly extended herself in her close little bed when she heard a stealthy step, saw one of her curtains drawn aside.
"Who is it?" she whispered, unsuspiciously, for she could see only a vague form darkening the space between the parted curtains.
The answer came in a hoarse undertone: "Ye dainty little darling!" She sat up, struck out madly, screamed at the top of her lungs.The curtains fell back into place, the snoring stopped.Susan, all in a sweat and a shiver, lay quiet.Hoarse whispering; then in Burlingham's voice stern and gruff--"Get back to your bed and let her alone, you rolling-eyed----" The sentence ended with as foul a spatter of filth as man can fling at man.Silence again, and after a few minutes the two snores resumed their bass accompaniment to the falsetto of the mosquito chorus.
Susan got a little troubled sleep, was wide awake when Violet came saying, "If you want to bathe, I'll bring you a bucket of water and you can put up your berth and do it behind your curtains."Susan thanked her and got a most refreshing bath.When she looked out the men were on deck, Violet was getting breakfast, and Connemora was combing her short, thinning, yellow hair before a mirror hung up near one of the forward doors.In the mirror Connemora saw her, smiled and nodded.
"You can fix your hair here," said she."I'm about done.You can use my brush."And when Susan was busy at the mirror, Mabel lounged on a seat near by smoking a before-breakfast cigarette."I wish to God I had your hair," said she."I never did have such a wonderful crop of grass on the knoll, and the way it up and drops out in bunches every now and then sets me crazy.It won't be long before I'll be down to Vi's three hairs and a half.You haven't seen her without her wigs? Well, don't, if you happen to be feeling a bit off.How Burlingham can--" There she stopped, blew out a volume of smoke, grinned half amusedly, half in sympathy with the innocence she was protecting--or, rather, was initiating by cautious degrees."Who was it raised the row last night?" she inquired.
"I don't know," said Susan, her face hid by the mass of wavy hair she was brushing forward from roots to ends.
"You don't? I guess you've got a kind of idea, though."No answer from the girl.
"Well, it doesn't matter.It isn't your fault." Mabel smoked reflectively."I'm not jealous of _him_--a woman never is.It's the idea of another woman's getting away with her property, whether she wants it or not--_that's_ what sets her mad-spot to humming.No, I don't give a--a cigarette butt--for that greasy bum actor.But I've always got to have somebody." She laughed.
"The idea of his thinking _you'd_ have _him_! What peacocks men are!"Susan understood.The fact of this sort of thing was no longer a mystery to her.But the why of the fact--that seemed more amazing than ever.Now that she had discovered that her notion of love being incorporeal was as fanciful as Santa Claus, she could not conceive why it should be at all.As she was bringing round the braids for the new coiffure she had adopted she said to Mabel:
"You--love him?"
"I?" Mabel laughed immoderately."You can have him, if you want him."Susan shuddered."Oh, no," she said."I suppose he's very nice--and really he's quite a wonderful actor.But I--I don't care for men."Mabel laughed again--curt, bitter."Wait," she said.
Susan shook her head, with youth's positiveness.
"What's caring got to do with it?" pursued Mabel, ignoring the headshake."I've been about quite a bit, and I've yet to see anybody that really cared for anybody else.We care for ourselves.But a man needs a woman, and a woman needs a man.They call it loving.They might as well call eating loving.Ask Burly."
