The officers got little reward for their considerate interest. Ensign Summers was engaged. He was explaining to Pauline, as they stood on the deck of the war-craft, the entire history of submarines from the time of Caesar, or Washington, or somebody to the present day, and Pauline was listening with that childlike simplicity which women use for the purpose of making men look foolish.
"By Jove! I thought he was tied, heart and hope, to the lovely foreigner," exclaimed one of the shoreward observers.
"So he is," said another. "But Mlle. de Longeon isn't interested in his daily toil. Do you know who the young lady up there is?"
"No. She must have got a dispensation from the secretary himself to go on this trip."
"So she did—easy as snapping your thumb. She's Miss Pauline Marvin, daughter of the richest man that has died in twenty years."
The boat gong sounded the signal of departure.
Summers, with a hasty apology, left Pauline and stepped forward. The engines began to rumble. The deadly and delicate craft—masterpiece of modern naval achievement—drew slowly from the pier.
There was a shout.
Summers, delivering rapid orders on deck, turned with an expression of annoyance to see his faithful man servant, Catin, out of breath and excited, rushing toward the boat.
Summers ordered the vessel stopped. It had moved not more than stepping distance from the pier and in a moment Catin was beside his master on the deck.