“I am sorry if I seem crotchety, dear. Indeed, it is no pretense on my part. You cannot imagine how that man Ventana persecuted me. The mere suggestion of any one’s paying me compliments and trying to be fascinating is so repellent that I cringe at the thought. And even our sailor-like captain will think it necessary to play the society clown, I suppose, seeing that we are young and passably good-looking.” Isobel Baring raised her head from the cushions. “Ventana was a determined wooer, then? What did he do?” she asked. “He—he pestered me with his attentions. Oh, I should have liked to flog him with a whip!” “He was always that sort of person—too serious,” and the head dropped again. The steward returned. He was a half-caste; his English was to the point. “De captin say he busy, he no come,” was his message. Elsie’s display of irritation vanished in a merry laugh. Isobel bounced up from the depths of the chair; her dark eyes blazed wrathfully. “Tell him—” she began. Then she mastered her annoyance sufficiently to ascertain what it was that Captain Courtenay had actually said, and she received a courteous explanation in Spanish that the commander could not leave the chart-house until the _Kansas_ had rounded the low-lying, red-hued Cape Caraumilla, which still barred the ship’s path to the south—the first stage of the long voyage from Valparaiso to London. But pertinacity was a marked trait of the Baring family; otherwise, Isobel’s father, a bluff, church-warden type of man, would not have won his way to the chief place in the firm of Baring, Thompson, Miguel & Co., Mining and Export Agents, the leading house in Chile’s principal port. Notwithstanding Elsie’s previous outburst, the steward was sent back to ask if the ladies might visit the bridge later. Meanwhile, would Captain Courtenay like a cup of tea? All things considered, there was only one possible answer; Captain Courtenay would be charmed if they favored him with both the tea and their company. “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.