Towards eleven o’clock at night as Frank was in the engine-room, moodily turning over these reflections in his mind and listening to the race of the screws as again and again they were lifted out of the water and strained the shafts and engines to the utmost, he was surprised to see Florence herself descending the steel ladder into that close atmosphere of oil and steam.  He ran to help her down, and taking her arm led her to one side, where they might be out of the way.  Here, in the glare of the lanterns, he looked down into her face and thought again how beautiful she was.  Her cheek was wet with spray, and her hair was tangled and glistening beneath her little yachting cap.  She seemed to exhale a breath of the storm above and bring down with her something of the gale itself.  She held fast to Frank as the ship laboured and plunged, smiling as their eyes met.

“You are the last person I expected down here,” said Frank.

“I was beginning to get afraid,” she returned.  “It’s blowing terribly, Frank—­and I thought, if anything happened, I’d like to be with you!”

“Oh, we are all right!” said Frank, his professional spirit aroused.  “With twin screws, twin engines, and plenty of sea-room—­ why, let it blow.”

His confidence reassured her.  He never appeared to her so strong, so self-reliant and calm as at that moment of her incipient fear.  Amongst his engines Frank always wore a masterful air, for he had that instinct for machinery peculiarly American, and was competent almost to the point of genius.

“Besides, I wanted to ask you a question,” said Florence.  “I had to ask it.  I couldn’t sleep without asking it, Frank.”

“I would have come, if you had sent for me,” he said.

“I couldn’t wait for that,” she returned.  “I knew it might be hard for you to leave—­or impossible.”

“What is it, Florence?” he asked.  The name slipped out in spite of him.

She looked at him strangely, her lustrous eyes wide open and bright with her unsaid thoughts.

“Are you very fond of her, Frank?” she asked.

“Her?  Who?” he exclaimed.  “You don’t mean Cassie Derwent?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Of course I’m fond of her,” he said.

“More than you are of me, Frank?” she persisted.

“Oh, it isn’t the same sort of thing, Florence,” he said.  “I never even thought of comparing you and her together.  Surely you know that?  Surely you understand that?”

“You used to—­to love me once, Frank,” she said, with a stifled sob.  “Has she made it any less?  Has she robbed me, Frank?  Have I lost you without knowing it?”

“No,” he said, “no, a thousand times, no!”

“Tell me that you love me, Frank,” she burst out.  “Tell me, tell me!” Then, as he did not answer, she went on passionately:  “That’s why I went to sea, Frank.  I was mad with jealousy.  I couldn’t give you up to her.  I couldn’t let her have you!”