So it was settled, so it happened. Bobs and Jinny Chatfield made satiric comments on the "Cinderella Man." Jinny laid a bet on Miss Morton's capture of him. He took up her wager, kissed them both good-bye, and left in high good humour for a holiday to his liking.
The yacht was a marvel of luxury. They were housed like princes, fed like kings. Two days out of New York they slid into sunshine and warm winds. Life was one long, delicious playtime. To Jerry it was perfect, until he began to realize the limitations of a ship, and one man's ability, when pitted against that of two women of decision.
Mrs. Brendon made good her promise to sit for studies for the portrait, but a few days out at sea were enough to convince Jerry that the price of his freedom was not the completed portrait of Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, but a completed romance. It looked as if Mrs. Brendon would keep him at sea until he proposed to Althea.
Man-like, the thing began to get on his nerves. Man-like, he looked about for some feminine outlet for his feelings, and, as if for the first time, his eye fell upon Isabelle Bryce, the sixteen-year-old daughter of the Wallys. She was a queer, thin, brown little creature, with huge brown eyes. For the first few days he had scarcely seen her. She read, or stayed with the captain, or talked to the sailors. He found her squatted on deck, one windy morning, when the others were inside playing bridge.
"Hello! Aren't you afraid you'll blow overboard?" he inquired.
"No, I'm not. You've waked up, have you?"
"Have I been asleep?"
"You haven't seen me before," she retorted.
"Well, I see you now. Do you know what you look like?" He smiled down at her.
"Yes. I look like a ripe olive."