"Oh, indeed! Rather an Apollo Belvidere, don't you think?"
"He seems to be a nice young fellow, quite well-mannered, and that sort of thing. And it imposes somewhat of a strain on the imagination to picture him in the scant attire popular at Delphi."
Mr. Fenshawe was not without a dry humor, but Mrs. Haxton was pleased to be amused.
"What a light-hearted creature you are!" she cried, "I envy you your high spirits. Personally, I feel utterly downcast at the prospect of a sea voyage. It always blows a mistral, or some other horrid thing, when I cross the Mediterranean. Are you sure that little bridge won't move the instant I step on it? I have quite an aversion to such jim-crack appliances."
Mrs. Haxton's timidity did not prevent her from noting the arrival of a telegraph messenger on a bicycle. He was reading the name of the yacht when she said:
"Come here, boy. Have you a telegram for me?"
She used excellent French, and the messenger handed her the small blue envelope he was carrying. The lady dropped her eyeglasses, and scanned the address quickly before she read it aloud.
"Richard Royson, British Yacht Aphrodite, Marseilles," she announced, after a moment's pause.
"Who is Richard Royson?" she went on, looking from Mr. Fenshawe to the nearest officer of the ship, who happened to be Royson himself.
The incident was so unexpected that Dick reddened and hesitated. Yet he saw no reason why he should not proclaim himself.