Wilhelm Smythe, for that was the name, or rather improved name—it had been William Smith—of the stranger, was the son of a retired tea merchant.
His father had left him an enormous amount of property and a very small amount of brains.
The captain—or rather Howard Murpoint, as he preferred to be called, had met him at a club some few months previously and had found out all about him.
He had won the good opinion of the half-cunning simpleton, who thought Howard Murpoint the nicest and most disinterested of friends.
All the way home Howard Murpoint gave a glowing description of the ball, to which, of course, Wilhelm Smythe had received no invitation, and the poor fellow was in agonies of envy.
"Delightful!" he exclaimed. "And she was there, for I saw her."
"Whom?" asked the captain.
"Can you ask me?" sighed Mr. Smythe, "when you know that I am madly in love with her."
The captain smiled.