Her life and theirs offered a strange contrast. She in her little
court of idlers and merry-makers; they, the grave men who were
answerable for her safety, the exponents of a rigid routine, to
whom the clang of the bells brought recurring duties and the
exercise of their professional knowledge. To her, yachting was a
play: to them, a business.

"I often remark your chief engineer," said the comte de Souvary to
Florence. "A handsome man, with an air at once sad and noble--one
of zoze extraordinary Americans who keep for their machines the
ardour we Europeans lavish on the women we love--and whose spirits
when zey die turn without doubt into petrole or electricity."

"I have known Mr. Rignold ever since I was a child," said
Florence, pleased to hear Frank praised. "I regard him as one of
my best and dearest friends."

"The more to his credit," said the count, astonished. "Many in
such a galere would prove themselves presumptuous and
troublesome."

"He is almost too much the other way," said Florence, with a sigh.

"Ah, that appeals to me!" said the count. "I should be such
anozzer in his place. Proud, silent, unobtrusive, who gives
dignity to what otherwise would be a false position."

"I came very near being his wife once," said Florence, impelled,
she hardly knew why, to make the confession.