Percival went to the upper deck and sought the most secluded corner he could find, but even there he was haunted by the soul-disturbing music.  Dancing was one of his accomplishments, and he had trod stately measures through half a dozen London seasons, the admiration and the despair of more than one aspiring mama.  He looked with great disapproval upon these new and boisterous American dances, he wondered if they were as difficult as they looked.  Seeing nobody about, he rose and tentatively tried a few steps behind the shelter of a life-boat.  He found it interesting, and was getting quite pleased over his cleverness in catching the syncopated time, when he spied an impertinent sailor grinning at him from the rigging.  Instantly his legs became rigid, and he affected an interest in the horizon intended to convince the sailor that he had been the victim of an optical illusion.  Of course it was quite beneath his dignity to take part in these rollicking dances, especially in such a public place as on shipboard.  He realized that fully; yet he thought of Bobby and sighed.  There were actually times in his life when he almost wished he had been born in the middle class.

Then he drew himself up sharply.  If there was one thing incumbent upon the second son of the late Lord Westenhanger, it was that he maintain his position.  Though grievously disappointed in his failure to capture the incomparable Lady Hortense, he must don his armor and ride forth again to find another lady, differing in kind, perhaps, but not in degree.  In his scheme of things wild young daughters of American sea-captains had no place whatever.

Yet even as he made this assertion he found himself moving toward the companionway and down to the deck below.

“Will you sit out the next dance with me?” he heard himself murmuring to Bobby over her partner’s shoulder.

“You bet I will,” said Bobby with a smile that made him forget the awfulness of her language.

Ten minutes later they were leaning over the rail on the deserted boat-deck, the wind full in their faces, watching the prow of the steamer gently rise and fall as she sailed straight into the golden heart of the sun.  Up from the horizon spread wave after wave; of perilous color, emerald melting into azure, crimson dying into rose.  There was just enough breeze to put a tiny feather on the windward slope of the waves, and every white crest caught the glory.

“This is better than all the tangoing in the world,” cried Bobby.  “Have you been up here all afternoon?”

“I have.  You see, all those people below get rather on one’s nerves.”

“Do I?” she challenged him instantly.

“Not on one’s nerves exactly,” he said, thrillingly aware that her arm was touching his on the railing and that the dangerous pink light was playing over her face; “but I must say you do get on one’s—­one’s mind!”

She laughed gaily.