"Fatigued! Fiddlesticks! Look at my grandfather. Is he fatigued? And we have traveled over the same route. But I will deal with the lie-abed Baron when I see him. What a nice boat the _Aphrodite_ is. I am in love with her already. And is that Captain Stump? Good morning, captain. I have heard about you. Baron von Kerber says you will bite my head off if I come on the bridge. Is that true?" "Shows how little Mr. von Kerber reely knows about me, ma'am," said Stump gallantly, beaming on her over the rail of the small upper deck. By this time, Mrs. Haxton had satisfied herself that the _Aphrodite's_ crew might be trusted to bring her boxes on board without smashing them, and she gathered her skirts carefully to keep them clear of the quay. She raised a lorgnon, mounted on a tortoise-shell and silver handle, and examined the yacht with measured glance. She honored the stalwart second officer with a prolonged stare. "Is that the captain?" she said to Mr. Fenshawe, who was waiting to escort her on board. "No. That is Mr. King, the young man Irene told you about." "Oh, indeed! Rather an Apollo Belvidere, don't you think?" "He seems to be a nice young fellow, quite well-mannered, and that sort of thing. And it imposes somewhat of a strain on the imagination to picture him in the scant attire popular at Delphi." Mr. Fenshawe was not without a dry humor, but Mrs. Haxton was pleased to be amused. "What a light-hearted creature you are!" she cried, "I envy you your high spirits. Personally, I feel utterly downcast at the prospect of a sea voyage. It always blows a mistral, or some other horrid thing, when I cross the Mediterranean. Are you sure that little bridge won't move the instant I step on it? I have quite an aversion to such jim-crack appliances." Mrs. Haxton's timidity did not prevent her from noting the arrival of a telegraph messenger on a bicycle. He was reading the name of the yacht when she said: "Come here, boy. Have you a telegram for me?" She used excellent French, and the messenger handed her the small blue envelope he was carrying. The lady dropped her eyeglasses, and scanned the address quickly before she read it aloud. "Richard Royson, British Yacht _Aphrodite_, Marseilles," she announced, after a moment's pause. "Who is Richard Royson?" she went on, looking from Mr. Fenshawe to the nearest officer of the ship, who happened to be Royson himself. The incident was so unexpected that Dick reddened and hesitated. Yet he saw no reason why he should not proclaim himself. "That message is meant for me, madam," he said. "For you? But Mr. Fenshawe has just said that your name is King?" "Baron von Kerber bestowed that name on me, but he acted under a misapprehension. My name is Royson." "How odd! How excessively odd!"