“Suffering Moses!” exploded the captain.  “Let any fool come along and shed a few drops of blood, then kiss his hand to the grand stand, and he’s got the women at his feet!  I thought Bobby had more sense than to cotton to that gilded rooster.  I’ve a good mind to lock her up in her stateroom until we reach Hong-Kong.”

Mrs. Weston shook her head and smiled.

“You can’t manage her that way.  She is the sweetest thing that ever was, but she is the kind of girl that can’t be forced.”

“Well, she shall be!” cried the captain, with savage determination.  “I headed her off once, and I’ll do it again.  I tell you, I’d rather see her dead than married to an Englishman.”

“Why, Captain Boynton!”

“I would.  It’s the Lord’s truth.  Her mother before her got caught by just such a high-headed British fool.  She was welcome to him, and he to her, though Heaven knows she paid for it.  If I thought my girl was going the same way—­”

His square jaw quivered suddenly, and he turned away abruptly.

Mrs. Weston was wise enough to keep silent until he had mastered himself, then she said kindly: 

“I don’t wonder you feel as you do.  You leave the matter to me, and I’ll do my best to keep things in abeyance until we reach Hong-Kong.  Once they are separated, the danger is practically over.”

It is doubtful, however, whether the combined efforts of the captain, Mrs. Weston, and even Percival himself could have kept things in statu quo had a timely typhoon not arrived and taken things into its own hands.  It was about four in the afternoon that the sky darkened and the bright blue water turned to gray.  The wind shifted and came on to blow dead ahead.

“What a queer light there is on everything!” cried Mrs. Weston, who was dutifully stationed between Bobby and Percival, doing sentry duty.  “I wonder if it is going to blow up a storm.”

“I hope so,” said Bobby.  “I love for things to happen.”

Percival glanced despairingly at Mrs. Weston, who was beginning on a fresh ball of yarn.  If she continued to sit there and knit the rest of her life, nothing ever would happen.

“I ought to close my port-hole if it’s going to rain,” she said.  “Do you think it is?”

“Sure to,” said Percival, with unusual alacrity.  “Hard shower any minute.”

Mrs. Weston rose reluctantly.

“Don’t you think you’d better come down, too, Bobby, and close yours?”

“Mine’s closed, thanks.  I’ll take your place and hold Mr. Hascombe’s tea-cup.”

Now, when a person with outrageously blue eyes is leaning on the arm of your steamer-chair, steadying your saucer for you, and the wind has blown everybody else off the deck except a bow-legged Chinese steward who is absorbed in tying things down, it does look as if Fate meant to be propitious.

Percival put his cup in his saucer and let his fingers touch the small hand that held it.