The day wore on, and the yacht sailed merrily over a summer sea. Mr.
Smithson fidgeted about the deck uneasily, watching every movement of
the sailors. No boat could be sailing better, as it seemed to him; but
in such weather and over such waters any boat must needs go easily. It
was in the blackness of night, amidst the fury of the storm, that
Montesma's opinion had been formed. Smithson began to think that his
friend was right. The sailors had honest countenances, but they looked
horribly stupid. Could men with such vacuous grins, such an air of
imbecile good-nature, be capable of acting wisely in any terrible
crisis?--could they have nerve and readiness, quickness, decision, all
those grand qualites which are needed by the seaman who has to contend
with the fury of the elements?
Mr. Smithson and his guests had breakfasted too late for the possibility
of luncheon. They were in Cowes Roads by one o'clock. A fleet of yachts
had arrived during their absence, and the scene was full of life and
gaiety. Lady Lesbia held a _levee_ at the afternoon tea, and had a crowd
of her old admirers around her--adorers whose presence in no wise
disturbed Horace Smithson's peace.
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