And now passed beautiful days; glorious shipboard days to which the slight uncertainty of a rival’s relative position gave only added zest. Ferratoni, it is true, may have had somewhat different views in this matter. He was obliged to spend the greater part of his time with Gale in the modeling of the new electrical propelling apparatus, which the latter was perfecting for the balloon. In the matter of constructive detail my assistance was not highly regarded by Gale who had really a mechanical turn of mind, as the Billowcrest itself proved; for whatever may have been the vessel’s faults from the seaman’s standpoint it was certainly all that a landsman could desire. Below stairs there was a splendidly appointed workshop, and the engineers on the Billowcrest were also skilled workers in wood and metals. The boat-car for the Cloudcrest, as we had decided to name the balloon, was a matter of daily discussion among us all, but at the point of technical intricacy I was promptly relieved for the good of all concerned. It was but natural, therefore, that I should be a good deal in Edith Gale’s company. Also that I should feel a gentle solicitude for Ferratoni—a sweet soul whom all presently grew to love; it seemed too bad that he should not come in for his full share of paradise. My own fancies had been called poetic, but I realized daily that Ferratoni lived in a world which to me could be never more than borderland. And this I hoped consoled him somewhat for what he was missing by tinkering away his days with Gale on a dynamo for my balloon car, while I was revelling in the seventh delight of the daughter’s company, above stairs. We cared for pretty much the same things. We liked to walk up and down the decks, discussing the books we had read, the pictures we had seen, and the purpose and possibilities of art. “Beauty, the secret of the universe, The thought that gives the soul eternal peace.” was the quotation most frequently on her lips. She had seen so much more of the world and its glories than I, and her understanding of nature was a marvel to me. She taught me to see colors that I had been blind to before. Sometimes she brought up her materials and sketched, while I looked on and loved her. When she would let me I photographed her. One day I ventured to show her some verses that I had written, and the fact that she really seemed to care for them gave me a higher opinion of us both. And the sea racing past made a fine accompaniment to these pleasant things. She liked to watch the surge along the side and listen to its music. So did I, and often together we leaned over the rail to watch and hear it rush by.