She snuggled against the rail, luxuriating in the sunshine.
“Who are you?” she asked, bluntly.
That question, coming after the pledging of their affection, astonished him like the loom of a ledge in mid-channel.
“It's enough for me that you are just as you are, boy! But you're not a prince in disguise, are you?”
“I'm only a Yankee sailor,” he told her. “But if you won't think that I'm trying to trade on what my folks have been before me, I'll say that my grandfather was Gamaliel Mayo of Mayoport.”
“That sounds good, but I never heard of him. With all my philosophy, I'm a poor student of history, sweetheart.” Her tone and the name she gave him took the sting out of her confession.
“I don't believe he played a great part in history. But he built sixteen ships in his day, and our house flag circled the world many times. Sixteen big ships, and the last one was the Harvest Home, the China clipper that paid for herself three times before an Indian Ocean monsoon swallowed her.”
“Well, if he made all that money, are you going to sea for the fun of it?”
“There are no more Yankee wooden ships on the sea. My poor father thought he was wise when the wooden ships were crowded off. He put his money into railroads—and you know what has happened to most of the folks who have put their money into new railroads.”
“I'm afraid I don't know much about business.”