“Your yacht! Why, I did not know you had one.”
“I know you didn’t. Because I am a poet, you necessarily think I am poor, which is a mistake. I am sufficiently well off to keep a hundred and fifty ton steam yacht, which is at present lying at Southampton, ready to start when I wish. A poet and a yacht sound incongruous, I admit; and I suppose I am the first rhyme-stringer who ever possessed such an article, unless you except Shelley’s boat partnership with Trelawny. But that was a small boat; my craft is a genuine steam yacht, and in it I explore unknown seas. You look astonished.”
“I am astonished. You are a poet-millionnaire.”
“Not quite as wealthy as that, and I need hardly tell you I did not pay for the yacht out of my poems. But, of course, you will come with me to Greece in The Eunice.”
“Eunice?”
“Yes; she was called The Aphrodite, but I rechristened her The Eunice out of compliment to you know whom.”
“Have you any more surprises in store?”
“Plenty,” replied Crispin, rising with a yawn; “but this one is quite enough to keep you awake for a night. Oh dear, I am so sleepy!”
“Wait a minute. Does Caliphronas know you are a yacht-owner?”
“No; I expect he will be surprised and confoundedly jealous.”