People whose homes are on the wave usually like to surround themselves with personal trinkets suggestive of the land, which is, after all, their natural element. Cécile's room aboard the _Shark_ was a sans-souci of delicious luxury in exquisite taste. But here in the _Daffodil's_ cabin, aside from a vase of yellow roses, there was not one single object which did not have its distinct and practical use. Not a picture, not a curio nor knick-knack of any sort. Books there were, no doubt, in the double row of lockers on either side, but nothing of ornamentation. There were two big nickelled lamps set in gimbals, one over a gravity table, the other over the head of the single bunk. A large watch hanging on the forward bulkhead furnished noiselessly the time; above it were a telltale compass and a small aneroid barometer, while a battered and archaic-looking sextant was jammed against the bulkhead under a yellow leather strap. The poet produced a couple of camp-chairs, which he opened and offered to his guests. "I hope that you do not object to yellow light," said he. "Yellow is my colour. I find it intellectually stimulating." "It is said to be the mental colour," observed Cécile. "In France," Bell remarked, "they say that it is the symbol of a _mauvais ménage_. But since you are not married it does not matter." "I am wedded to my Muse," said Applebo, "and it is true that we sometimes quarrel. Perhaps that is the reason." Bell shot his daughter a glance which said as plainly as words, "There! I said that he was balmy!" The poet looked sleepily unconscious. The dreamy expression of his eyes would have led one to believe that he was dreaming of meadows sown with asphodel. Bell made noises in his fat throat. "H'm ... huh ... huh ... my daughter and I have called to thank you, Mr. Applebo, for your services rendered this morning to an indiscreet member of our family ... h'm ... huh..." The poet made a graceful, undulating motion with his hand, expressive and deprecatory. Cécile, regarding him intently, decided that he was quite correct in saying that yellow was his colour. Her eyes clung to him, fascinated by his odd, unusual type. The yawl swung a trifle on her cable, and a golden shaft of light which struck diagonally through the skylight, travelled slowly across the bulkhead and bathed the leonine head of Applebo in a golden effulgence, wreathing his wavy hair with a true aureole. A golden man he looked. Cécile was unable to take her eyes from him. [Illustration: Cécile was unable to take her eyes from him] "My sister is much to be congratulated," said she, "in finding a champion at the critical moment." "Oh," said the poet, "the one to be congratulated is the keeper. Miss Bell was about to fill him full of shot." "What!" cried Bell, much startled. "Quite so. He meant to drag her off by force and she felt differently about it. When I arrived she had him covered and was promising to blow his head off." He blinked.