Towards eleven o'clock at night as Frank was in the engine-room,
moodily turning over these reflections in his mind and listening
to the race of the screws as again and again they were lifted out
of the water and strained the shafts and engines to the utmost, he
was surprised to see Florence herself descending the steel ladder
into that close atmosphere of oil and steam. He ran to help her
down, and taking her arm led her to one side, where they might be
out of the way. Here, in the glare of the lanterns, he looked down
into her face and thought again how beautiful she was. Her cheek
was wet with spray, and her hair was tangled and glistening
beneath her little yachting cap. She seemed to exhale a breath of
the storm above and bring down with her something of the gale
itself. She held fast to Frank as the ship laboured and plunged,
smiling as their eyes met.
"You are the last person I expected down here," said Frank.
"I was beginning to get afraid," she returned. "It's blowing
terribly, Frank--and I thought, if anything happened, I'd like to
be with you!"
"Oh, we are all right!" said Frank, his professional spirit
aroused. "With twin screws, twin engines, and plenty of sea-room--
why, let it blow."
His confidence reassured her. He never appeared to her so strong,
so self-reliant and calm as at that moment of her incipient fear.
Amongst his engines Frank always wore a masterful air, for he had
that instinct for machinery peculiarly American, and was competent
almost to the point of genius.
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