As the first and most important preparation for that event the old fellow ordered from his Singapore agent a Steyn and Ebhart’s “upright grand.”  I was then commanding a little steamer in the island trade, and it fell to my lot to take it out to him, so I know something of Freya’s “upright grand.”  We landed the enormous packing-case with difficulty on a flat piece of rock amongst some bushes, nearly knocking the bottom out of one of my boats in the course of that nautical operation.  Then, all my crew assisting, engineers and firemen included, by the exercise of much anxious ingenuity, and by means of rollers, levers, tackles, and inclined planes of soaped planks, toiling in the sun like ancient Egyptians at the building of a pyramid, we got it as far as the house and up on to the edge of the west verandah—­which was the actual drawing-room of the bungalow.  There, the case being ripped off cautiously, the beautiful rosewood monster stood revealed at last.  In reverent excitement we coaxed it against the wall and drew the first free breath of the day.  It was certainly the heaviest movable object on that islet since the creation of the world.  The volume of sound it gave out in that bungalow (which acted as a sounding-board) was really astonishing.  It thundered sweetly right over the sea.  Jasper Allen told me that early of a morning on the deck of the Bonito (his wonderfully fast and pretty brig) he could hear Freya playing her scales quite distinctly.  But the fellow always anchored foolishly close to the point, as I told him more than once.  Of course, these seas are almost uniformly serene, and the Seven Isles is a particularly calm and cloudless spot as a rule.  But still, now and again, an afternoon thunderstorm over Banka, or even one of these vicious thick squalls, from the distant Sumatra coast, would make a sudden sally upon the group, enveloping it for a couple of hours in whirlwinds and bluish-black murk of a particularly sinister aspect.  Then, with the lowered rattan-screens rattling desperately in the wind and the bungalow shaking all over, Freya would sit down to the piano and play fierce Wagner music in the flicker of blinding flashes, with thunderbolts falling all round, enough to make your hair stand on end; and Jasper would remain stock still on the verandah, adoring the back view of her supple, swaying figure, the miraculous sheen of her fair head, the rapid hands on the keys, the white nape of her neck—­while the brig, down at the point there, surged at her cables within a hundred yards of nasty, shiny, black rock-heads.  Ugh!

And this, if you please, for no reason but that, when he went on board at night and laid his head on the pillow, he should feel that he was as near as he could conveniently get to his Freya slumbering in the bungalow.  Did you ever!  And, mind, this brig was the home to be—­their home—­the floating paradise which he was gradually fitting out like a yacht to sail his life blissfully away in with Freya.  Imbecile!  But the fellow was always taking chances.