"I suppose it is."
"Your father had none. Long after the smash he'd hunt me up for a week's fishing. Isn't she a beauty?" pointing to the yacht.
"She is," the young man agreed, with his admiration leveled at the lovely profile of the girl.
"Let me see," began the admiral; "there will be Mr. and Mrs. Coldfield, first-class sailors, both of them. What's the name of that singer who is with them?"
"Hildegarde von Mitter."
"Of the Royal Opera in Munich?" asked Fitzgerald.
"Yes. Have you met her? Isn't she lovely?"
"I have only heard of her."
"And Arthur Cathewe," concluded the admiral.
"Cathewe? That will be fine," Fitzgerald agreed aloud. But in his heart he swore he would never forgive Arthur for this trick. And he knew all the time! "He's the best friend I have. A great hunter, with a reputation which reaches from the Carpathians to the Himalayas, from Abyssinia to the Congo."