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Updated: May 2, 2025
Percival found it decidedly hard going before he reached his steamer-chair. When he did so, he encountered a sight that filled him with chagrin. Wrapped in the folds of his rug was that obnoxious blue-and-lavender steamer-coat, with its owner snugly ensconced within, her eyes closed, and her cheek brazenly reposing on the Hascombe crest that adorned the pillow under her head!
The most conspicuous example of the last class was a somewhat noisy young person in a still more resonant steamer-coat who hung at an angle of forty-five degrees over the railing, and exchanged confidences of a personal nature with an old man on the wharf twenty feet below.
Every time Percival's walk brought him toward the bow of the boat, his eyes were offended by that blue-and-lavender steamer-coat and by a pair of beaded-leather slippers with three straps across the instep and absurdly high French heels. Could any one but an American, he soliloquized, be guilty of starting on a journey in such a costume?
"I don't know," she said good-humoredly. "I've got a trunkful of clothes down in my state-room, but I never know which ones to put on. You see, we never dike up like this on the ranch. When the captain brought me to San Francisco, he handed me over to a woman at the hotel and told her to rig me out for the trip." "Did did she buy your steamer-coat?" asked Percival.
He begrudged every moment that must elapse before he had Bobby to himself, and told her of his great decision. "But isn't it too late to be taking a walk?" she protested when the last dance was over, and he was urging a turn on the bund. "Just a breath of fresh air. Won't take five minutes. Where's your wrap?" "I haven't any but my steamer-coat. I don't suppose you could stand that."
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