that it was better to break up the party for a few hours.

Tom Virtue had, up to the age of five-and-twenty, been possessed of a
sufficient income for his wants. He had entered at the bar, not that he
felt any particular vocation in that direction, but because he thought
it incumbent upon him to do something. Then, at the death of an uncle,
he had come into a considerable fortune, and was able to indulge his
taste for yachting, which was the sole amusement for which he really
cared, to the fullest.

He sold the little five-tonner he had formerly possessed, and purchased
the _Seabird_. He could well have afforded a much larger craft, but he
knew that there was far more real enjoyment in sailing to be obtained
from a small craft than a large one, for in the latter he would be
obliged to have a regular skipper, and would be little more than a
passenger, whereas on board the _Seabird_, although his first hand was
dignified by the name of skipper, he was himself the absolute master.
The boat carried the aforesaid skipper, three hands, and a steward, and
with them he had twice been up the Mediterranean, across to Norway, and
had several times made the circuit of the British Isles.

He had unlimited confidence in his boat, and cared not what weather he
was out in her. This was the first time since his ownership of her that
the _Seabird_ had carried lady passengers. His friend Grantham, an old
school and college chum, was a hard-working barrister, and Virtue had
proposed to him to take a month's holiday on board the _Seabird_.

"Put aside your books, old man," he said. "You look fagged and
overworked; a month's blow will do you all the good in the world."