“I shan’t, but please don’t be violent!  Do not murder the poor man, Dickie, dear,”—­and she took hold of his arm entreatingly—­“for there he is—­as tall and mysterious as ever—­and me found guilty with a few of his orchids pinned to my jacket!”

“This is good fortune, indeed,” said Armitage a moment later when they had shaken hands.  “I finished my errand at Geneva unexpectedly and here I am.”

He smiled at the feebleness of his explanation, and joined in their passing comment on the life of the harbor.  He was not so dull but that he felt Dick Claiborne’s resentment of his presence on board.  He knew perfectly well that his acquaintance with the Claibornes was too slight to be severely strained, particularly where a fellow of Dick Claiborne’s high spirit was concerned.  He talked with them a few minutes longer, then took himself off; and they saw little of him the rest of the day.

Armitage did not share their distinction of a seat at the captain’s table, and Dick found him late at night in the smoking-saloon with pipe and book.  Armitage nodded and asked him to sit down.

“You are a sailor as well as a soldier, Captain.  You are fortunate; I always sit up the first night to make sure the enemy doesn’t lay hold of me in my sleep.”

He tossed his book aside, had brandy and soda brought and offered Claiborne a cigar.

“This is not the most fortunate season for crossing; I am sure to fall to-morrow.  My father and mother hate the sea particularly and have retired for three days.  My sister is the only one of us who is perfectly immune.”

“Yes; I can well image Miss Claiborne in the good graces of the elements,” replied Armitage; and they were silent for several minutes while a big Russian, who was talking politics in a distant corner with a very small and solemn German, boomed out his views on the Eastern question in a tremendous bass.

Dick Claiborne was a good deal amused at finding himself sitting beside Armitage,—­enjoying, indeed, his fellow traveler’s hospitality; but Armitage, he was forced to admit, bore all the marks of a gentleman.  He had, to be sure, followed Shirley about, but even the young man’s manner in this was hardly a matter at which he could cavil.  And there was something altogether likable in Armitage; his very composure was attractive to Claiborne; and the bold lines of his figure were not wasted on the young officer.  In the silence, while they smoked, he noted the perfect taste that marked Armitage’s belongings, which to him meant more, perhaps, than the steadiness of the man’s eyes or the fine lines of his face.  Unconsciously Claiborne found himself watching Armitage’s strong ringless hands, and he knew that such a hand, well kept though it appeared, had known hard work, and that the long supple fingers were such as might guide a tiller fearlessly or set a flag daringly upon a fire-swept parapet.

Armitage was thinking rapidly of something he had suddenly resolved to say to Captain Claiborne.  He knew that the Claibornes were a family of distinction; the father was an American diplomat and lawyer of wide reputation; the family stood for the best of which America is capable, and they were homeward bound to the American capital where their social position and the father’s fame made them conspicuous.