“Your yacht rides remarkably well, if her shaft is really broken,” he remarked.
Mr. Watson nodded.
“She’s a beautifully built boat,” he remarked with enthusiasm. “If the weather is favourable her canvas will bring her into Boston Harbour two days after us.”
“I suppose,” the captain asked, looking at her through his glass, “you satisfied yourself that her shaft was really broken?”
“I did not, sir,” Mr. Watson answered. “My engineer reported it so, and, as I know nothing of machinery myself, I was content to take his word. He holds very fine diplomas, and I presume he knows what he is talking about. But anyway Mrs. Watson would never have stayed upon that boat one moment longer than she was compelled. She’s a wonderfully nervous woman is Mrs. Watson.”
“That’s a somewhat unusual trait for your countrywoman, is it not?” Mr. Sabin asked.
Mr. J. B. Watson looked steadily at his questioner.
“My wife, sir,” he said, “has lived for many years on the Continent. She would scarcely consider herself an American.”
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Sabin remarked courteously. “One can see at least that she has acquired the polish of the only habitable country in the world. But if I had taken the liberty of guessing at her nationality, I should have taken her to be a German.”