His cabin walls were gorgeous with pictures of
Maxine Elliott in her palmy days, and blonde and
sophisticated little girls on vinegar calendars, posing
bare-legged and self-conscious in blue calico and
sunbonnets. You sat in the warm yellow glow of Oscar's lamp
and were regaled with everything from the Swedish National
Anthem to Mischa Elman's tenderest crooning. And Oscar sat
rapt, his weather-beaten face a rich deep mahogany, his eyes
bluer than any eyes could ever be except in contrast with
that ruddy countenance, his teeth so white that you found
yourself watching for his smile that was so gently sweet and
childlike. Oh, when Oscar put on his black pants and issued
invitations for a musical evening one was sure to find his
cabin packed. Eight did it, with squeezing.
This, then, was the atmosphere in which Fanny Brandeis found
herself. As far from Haynes-Cooper as anything could be.
At the end of the first week she found herself able to think
clearly and unemotionally about Theodore, and about Fenger.
She had even evolved a certain rather crude philosophy out
of the ruins that had tumbled about her ears.
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