The _Wisp_ stood wing-and-wing down the sound. Fessenden lounged at his ease beside the charming captain. "Betty," he said, "has it yet occurred to you that you are really my wife?" She gave him a swift, half-frightened glance. "No-o. I haven't really had much time to think about it, you know." "Just now it came over me in a sort of wave. If you don't object, I'll call you 'dear' occasionally, simply to assure myself it's true." "Whenever you like," she returned politely. "Dear!" "Oh! That's rather--pronounced, isn't it?" "Very well pronounced. Very pleasant to pronounce, in fact." She sat down trustfully beside him, a guiding hand on the wheel. "Do you know, Bob White, I've often thought it would be delightful to sail like this with a ra-ther good-looking--comrade?" "Am I the man, may I ask?" "You are." "Thank you--dear. And do you know that for the last two or three days I've been thinking I'd give my hope of salvation to sail like this with Betty Landis?" She gave him another quick glance. "With whom?" "I mean with Betty Fessenden, of course." "O-oh!" "I'm dreaming now of sailing on and on with her. The other night I dreamed that she put 'dear' after my name, and that if we could only sail and sail long enough she might do it again." His half-closed lids hid the warmth in his eyes, but his voice shook with the passion he struggled to control. She shrank a little. "You needn't," he said. "Please don't. You can trust me absolutely. I--I was merely dreaming, you know." "I didn't mean to hurt you, Bob White--dear. Trust you? My presence here shows that I do--you know that." Her fingers touched his hair so fleetingly that he hardly dared believe she had meant it for a caress. Presently she relinquished the wheel to him and took his place among the cushions. He noticed how round her throat was, and how deliciously white. The rose-tipped chin and red mouth held him fascinated, until the glint of bayonets in the eyes warned him to control his glances. "You're the most adorable skipper I ever saw," he declared. "I've a confession to make, Boatswain." "Confess then, Nancy Lee." "My ankle wasn't hurt that day in the brook. I didn't really stumble." "What!" She nodded contritely. "No. I did it on purpose. Wasn't it perfectly shameless?" "I've had a far-away feeling that you made a miraculous recovery from that strain. But why did you pretend?" "Just as a game. I wanted to see what the--the good-looking stranger would do." "You found out." "Goodness, yes, didn't I!" They laughed together at the thought. "Madge and Charlie Danton," she went on--"do you think they're really in love? I mean, do you think their love will last?" "Don't you?" "Ye-es, I do. She has just enough _esprit de diable_ to hold him. It is 'infinite variety' that pleases him, I fancy, and Madge is twenty women in one." "You're a philosopher. By the way, where did you learn French? Do they teach that in the 'little red-roofed schoolhouse' in Maryland?"