brought him aboard the Minnehaha. To be a silent spectator of
gaieties and festivities he could not share; to be condemned to
stand aloof while he saw the woman he loved petted and sought
after by men of exalted position--what could be imagined more
detestable to a lover without hope, without the shadow of a claim,
with nothing to look forward to except the inevitable day when a
luckier fellow would carry her off before his eyes. He moped in
secret and often spent hours locked in his cabin, sitting with his
face in his hands, a prey to the bitterest melancholy and
dejection. In public, however, he always bore himself
unflinchingly, and was too proud a man and too innately a
gentleman to allow his face to be read even by her. It was
incumbent on him, so long as he drew her pay and wore her uniform,
to act in all respects the part he was cast to play; and no one
could have guessed, except perhaps the girl herself, that he had
any other thought save to do his duty cheerfully and well.

Captain Landry sat in the saloon at the bottom of the table,
Florence herself taking the head; but the other officers of the
ship had a cosey messroom of their own, presided over by Frank
Rignold as the officer second in rank on board. Thus whole days
might pass with no further exchange between himself and Florence
than the customary good-morning when they happened to meet on
deck. Except on the business of the ship it was tacitly understood
that no officer should speak to her without being first addressed.
The discipline of a man-of-war prevailed; everything went forward
with stereotyped precision and formality; the officers were
supposed to comport themselves with impassivity and self-
effacement. Florence had no more need of being conscious of their
presence than if they had been so many automatons.