On our first night out of Honolulu I happened
to come around the corner of the promenade deck in time to observe
one of the men passengers contemplating this lady, who stood at some
distance from him, attired in a rather _decollete_ frock. The man's
attitude was a modified edition of that of the Colossus of Rhodes: He
steadied a cigarette between his lips with the third and fourth fingers
of his left hand, while his right hand was thrust into his trousers
pocket. A peculiar expression lingered on his countenance--kind of
struggle between a painful memory and a judicial estimate. He was so
absorbed in his musings that he did not notice me, and he spoke aloud.
"I knew she was thin," he said, "but even with her low-necked dresses,
I did not think that it was as bad as it is."
I beat a retreat without attracting his attention, but I understood
him, for I had seen him on the back seat of an army ambulance in the
clutches of the perennially youthful lady, starting for the Pali.
We left Honolulu with the modified regret which always must be
entertained when other lands are beckoning. The native custom of
adorning departing friends with wreaths of flowers was followed,
and some of our army belles were almost weighed down with circlets of
blossoms cast over their heads by admiring officers of Honolulu. Once
clear of the dock and out of eye range, they shamelessly cast these
tokens away, and the deck stewards gathered up the perfumed heaps and
threw them overboard.
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