he could and as short. In return he was kept informed of
Florence's movements; of the sensation she made everywhere; of the
great people who had taken her under their wing; of her rumoured
engagements; of her triumphs in Paris and London; of her yachts
and horses and splendour and beauty. His correspondents showed an
artless pride in the recital. It was becoming their only claim to
consideration that they knew Florence Fenacre. Her dazzling life
reflected a sort of glory upon themselves, and their letters ran
endlessly on the same theme. It was all a modern fairy tale, and
they fairly bubbled with satisfaction to think that they knew the
fairy princess!

Frank read it all with exasperation. It tormented him to even hear
her name; to be reminded of her in any way; to realise that she
was as much alive as he himself, and not the phantom he would have
preferred to keep her in his memory. Yet he was inconsistent
enough to rage when a letter came that brought no news of her. He
would tear it into pieces and throw it out of his cabin window.
The fools, why couldn't they tell him what he wanted to know! He
would carry his ill-humour into the engine-room and revenge
himself on fate and the loss of the woman he loved by a harsh
criticism of his subordinates. A defective pump or a troublesome
valve would set his temper flaming; and then, overcome at his own
injustice, he would go to the other extreme; and, roundly blaming
himself, would slap some sullen artificer on the back and tell him
that it was all a joke. His men, amongst themselves, called him a
wild cracked devil, and it was the tattle of the ship that he
drank hard in secret. They knew something was wrong with him, and
fastened on the likeliest cause. Others said out boldly that the
chief engineer was going crazy.