“I thought so,” cried Isobel, triumphantly. “Come on, Elsie! Let us climb the ladder of conquest. The steward will bring the tea-things. The chart-house is just splendid. It will provide a refuge when the Count becomes too pressing.”
There was a tightening of Elsie’s lips to which Isobel paid no heed. The imminent protest was left unspoken, for Courtenay’s voice came to them:
“Please hold on by the rail. If a foot were to slip on one of those brass treads the remainder of the day would be a compound of tears and sticking-plaster.”
“I think you said ‘reserved,’” whispered Isobel to her companion with a wicked little laugh. To Courtenay, peering through a hatch in the hurricane deck, she cried:
“Is the brass rail more dependable than you, captain?”
“It will serve your present purpose, Miss Baring,” said he, not taking the hint.
Gathering her skirts daintily in her left hand, Isobel tripped up the steep stairs. Elsie followed. Courtenay, who had the manner and semblance of the first lieutenant of a warship, stood outside a haven of plate glass, shining mahogany, and white paint. The woodwork of the deck was scrubbed until it had the color of new bread. An officer paced the bridge; a sailor, within the chart-house, held the small wheel of the steam steering-gear. Somewhat to Isobel’s surprise, neither man seemed to be aware of her presence.
“So this is your den?” she said, throwing her bird-like glance over the bright interior, before she gave the commander a look which was designed to bewitch him instantly. “Surely you don’t sleep here, too?”
“Oh, no. This room is the brain of the ship, Miss Baring. We are always wide-awake here. My quarters are farther aft. I think I can find a chair for you if you care to sit down while I have my tea.”
The captain led the way to a spacious cabin behind the chart-house.