“Eleven,” said the man, getting to his feet; “aboot time for the fun to begin in the bathing-tank.”

Ordinarily Percival would have allowed the conversation to end there, but he felt now that he would be risking his sanity if he sat there any longer counting raindrops.

“What’s taking place?” he asked listlessly.

“The usual morning diversion:  the captain’s daughter is teaching a couple of bairns to swim.”

“Surely they won’t go in on a beastly day like this!”

“I’ll be bound they do.  Shall we go find out?”

Forward a number of people were already hanging over the rail, highly diverted at what was taking place in the big canvas tank on the deck below.  Percival, looking down, beheld the young person standing on the lower rung of a ladder, coaxing a small boy to jump from the platform above.  Now, on several occasions in the past Percival had met Disillusion face to face in a bathing-suit.  A certain attenuated memory of the faithless Hortense made him wince even yet.  But the round and graceful figure poised in dancing impatience on the ladder-rung defied criticism.  Much as he disapproved of the public exhibition, he could not check a breath of admiration.

The small boy shivering on the platform vibrated between courage and fear; then, urged by the shouts from above, and lured by that sparkling face and those outstretched arms below, he leaped.  Shrieks of laughter followed as his fat little body spanked the water, and was quickly righted and deposited, gasping, but victorious, on a life-buoy.  Then the small girl must dive, and after that all three must splash and jump and float and swim like a trio of mad young porpoises.

The Honorable Percival was a good swimmer himself, and his interest kindled as he watched the perfect ease with which the young person handled herself in the narrow confines of the tank.  While he deplored the wretched taste of the proceeding, he had to admit that she carried it off with admirable lack of self-consciousness.  She swam as she did everything else, with impetuous joy, and seemed as unaware of the admiring glances of the spectators as the children themselves.

“Did ye see her the other day when she climbed to the crow’s-nest?” asked the Scotchman, with enthusiasm.

“No,” said Percival, curtly.

“The wind was blowing at a bittie, but she went up the rigging like a sailor.  I doubt if the lass would be afraid of the de’il himself.”

“Probably jolly well used to all this sort of thing,” said Percival, wearily.

“Indeed, no; this is her first sea-voyage.  She never saw a ship before.”

“I thought you said she was the captain’s daughter.”

“So she is; but he’s had her out on a Western ranch since she was a bit of a lass.  Quite a romance!”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Her mother was a play-actress.  Ran off with an English nobleman.  Left the captain and the lassie in the lurch, and died before she reached England.  I had the story from the purser.”