"Frank," she returned, "it is not a question of your competency at all. You know very well I'd trust my life to you, blindfold. It's —it's the social side, the old affair between us, the first names and all that kind of thing."
"Oh, I see!" he said blankly.
"As an officer on my ship," she said, "you could easily put yourself and me in a difficult position. In a way, we'll really be further apart than if you were in South America and I in Monte Carlo, for, though we'd always be good friends, and all that, the formalities would have to be observed. Now, I have offended you?" she added, putting out her hand appealingly.
"I think you might have known me better, Florence," he returned. "I am not offended—what right have I to be offended—only a little hurt, perhaps, to think that you could doubt me for a single moment in such a matter. I understand very well, and appreciate the need for it. Did you expect me to call you Florence on the quarterdeck of your own vessel, and presume on our old friendship to embarrass you and set people talking? Good Heavens, what do you take me for?"
"Don't be angry with me, Frank," she pleaded. "It had to be said, you know. I wanted you so much to come; I wanted to share my beautiful vessel with you; and yet I dreaded any kind of a false position."
"I shall treat you precisely as I would any owner of any ship I sailed on," he said. "That is, with respect and always preserving my distance. I will never address you first except to say good- morning and good-evening, and will show no concern if you do not speak to me for days on end."
"Oh, Frank, you are an angel!" she cried.
"No," he returned, "only—as far as I can—a gentleman, Miss
Fenacre."
"We needn't begin now, Frank," she exclaimed, almost with annoyance.
"Am I in your service?" he asked.