"Well, the yacht is lying outside, and Fenella and I are doing a little circumnavigating of the island, so come along." Stowell tried to excuse himself, but the Governor would listen to no excuses. "Everybody says you are looking like a ghost these days, and so you are. Therefore come, let's get a breath of sea-air into you." "But your Excellency...." "I've brought one of the ship's boys ashore for your bag, so pack it quick...." "But really...." "Where's your bedroom and I'll pack it myself." "No, no! But if I must...." "That's better! I'll smoke a pipe and wait for you." "After all, why not?" thought Stowell, as he packed his bag and put on flannels and a blue jacket. This flying away from Fenella was unworthy of a man. It was cowardly, contemptible. He must learn to resist temptation. Half an hour later he was riding with the Governor in a dinghy over the fresh waters of the bay towards a large white yacht, "The Fenella," with the red ensign fluttering over her. The gangway was open and as Stowell stepped on to the spotless deck of the ship, her namesake, also in yachting costume, was waiting to receive him. The mainsail, mizzen and jib being set, the grey-bearded captain, in blue with brass buttons, called on his boys to swing the dinghy up to the davits and haul in the anchor. In a few minutes more, to the hiss and simmer of the sea, the yacht was running free before the wind, leaving the town to the south behind it. The bell rang for luncheon, and with the Governor and Fenella, Stowell crossed to the companion and went down to the saloon. Books and field-glasses were lying about the sofas and the table was glistening with silver and glass. Blue silk curtains, with the sunlight shining through them, were fluttering over the skylight and the port-holes. How fresh! How charming! When they came up on deck an hour afterwards they were doubling the Point of Ayre, and the lighthouse at the northernmost end of it was looking like a marble column with a glittering eye. Towards six o'clock they cast anchor for the night off Peel. The sun was then setting, and the herring fleet (a hundred boats) going out for the night were passing in front of the red sky like a flight of black birds. By the time dinner was over the drowsy spirit of the sunset had died over the waters behind them, the twilight had deepened to a ghostly grey, and the moon had risen over the little fishing town in front and the gaunt walls of the ruined Peel Castle which stands on an island rock. The Governor, who had sent ashore for the day's newspapers, remained in the cabin to read them. But Stowell and Fenella sat on deck under the moon and the stars. The air had become very quiet. There was no sound anywhere except the tranquil wash of the waves against the yacht and the whispering of the sea outside. Fenella talked and laughed. Stowell laughed and talked. They found it so easy to talk to each other.