He brought her to her course and arrested her at it, and the girl cried, eagerly, "Yes, yes, I see. Let me hold the wheel, George."
She grasped the spokes, a swelling, beautiful, conquering figure, a delight to the eye, a triumph of British girlhood, one of those women who are the mothers of the gallant and glorious sons that man the signal-halliards of our country.
"Now bring the ship to windward of her course," said Hardy.
"I do not understand you," she answered, reproachfully.
"Make that bowsprit yonder point there," he exclaimed, and he indicated with outstretched hand a part of the horizon to windward of the bow.
"Why didn't you speak more plainly? I can do it."
She revolved the wheel by three or four spokes, and hailed with eyes of transport and conquest the response of the compass card.
"Do you understand?" said Hardy.
"My dear," she answered, "I can steer your ship perfectly."
"Not yet," he said, "but you are not far off."