Hers was the same pretty face and blue eyes that had won Alfonso’s heart.  She supposed him dead; her dress of mourning was not for him, but for her mother, whom she idolized.  At first Christine hesitated about wearing black on the journey, but she soon learned that it increased her charms, and that it gave protection from annoyance.  Many supposed she was a young widow.  So thought a handsome naval officer whom she had met in London.  When Christine returned to her room, she found that a messenger boy had brought her his card, with compliments, and a request that she occupy a seat at his table for the voyage.  With a black jacket on her arm, Christine was conducted to her seat at dinner by the chief steward.  She wore a plain black skirt and waist of black and white, with black belt and jet buckle.

An up-to-date liner is a sumptuous hotel afloat.  The safety, speed, and comfort of the modern steamer does not destroy but rather enhances the romance of ocean voyage.  The handsome young officer and pretty Christine, as they promenaded the decks, added effect to the passing show.  Her mourning costume gradually yielded to outing suits of violet tints with white collar and cuffs, and a simple black sailor’s cap with white cord for band.

Artist that Christine was, and lover of the ocean, she and the officer watched the sea change from a transient green to a light blue and back again, then to a deep blue when the sun was hidden in a cloud, then, when the fogs were encountered, to a cold grey.

Christine took great interest in the easy navigation of the steamer; she watched the officers take observations, and verify the ship’s run.  Frequently she was seen with the young officer on the bridge, he pointing out the lighthouse on the dangerous Scilly Islands, the last sight of old England off Land’s End, she enjoying the long swell and white crested billows, as the shelter of the British coast was left behind.

A charming first night aboard ship it was, the moon full, the sky picturesque, the sea dark, except where the steamer and her screws churned it white; at the bow, showers and spray of phosphorus, and at the stern, rippling eddies and a long path of phosphorus and white foam.

Christine wished she could transfer to canvas the swift steamer, as she felt it in her soul, powerful as a giant and graceful as a woman; at the mast-head an electric star, red and green lights on either side, long rows of tremulous bulbs of light from numerous portholes; the officers on the bridge with night glass in hand, walking to and fro, dark figures of sailors at the bow and in the crow’s nest, all eyes and ears.  “All’s well” lulls to sleep the after-dinner loungers in chairs along the deck, while brave men and fair women keep step to entrancing music.

With a week of favorable weather, and unprecedented speed the record out was won; officers, sailors, passengers, all were jubilant.  On Pier 14, North River, Fredrika and her husband met Christine, and drove to their fine home overlooking the Central Park.