’It’sthesignaloftheCrossKeysLinerunningtoAustraliaI
wonderwhichsteameritis。’Thenoteofhisvoicehadchanged；heseemedtobetalkingtohimself，andMaisiedidnotapproveofitThemoonlightbrokethehazeforamoment，touchingtheblacksidesofalongsteamerworkingdownChannel’Fourmastsandthreefunnels——she’sindeepdraught，tooThatmustbetheBarralong，ortheBhutiaNo，theBhutiahasaclopperbowIt’stheBarralong，toAustraliaShe’lllifttheSouthernCrossinaweek，——luckyoldtub！——oh，luckyoldtub！’
Hestaredintently，andmoveduptheslopeoftheforttogetabetterview，butthemistontheseathickenedagain，andthebeatingofthescrewsgrewfainterMaisiecalledtohimalittleangrily，andhereturned，stillkeepinghiseyestoseaward’HaveyoueverseentheSouthernCrossblazingrightoveryourhead？’heasked’It’ssuperb！’
’No，’shesaidshortly，’andIdon’twanttoIfyouthinkit’ssolovely，whydon’tyougoandseeityourself？’
Sheraisedherfacefromthesoftblacknessofthemartenskinsaboutherthroat，andhereyesshonelikediamondsThemoonlightonthegraykangaroofurturnedittofrostedsilverofthecoldest。