lovely profile of the girl.

"Let me see," began the admiral; "there will be Mr. and Mrs. Coldfield,
first-class sailors, both of them. What's the name of that singer who
is with them?"

"Hildegarde von Mitter."

"Of the Royal Opera in Munich?" asked Fitzgerald.

"Yes. Have you met her? Isn't she lovely?"

"I have only heard of her."

"And Arthur Cathewe," concluded the admiral.

"Cathewe? That will be fine," Fitzgerald agreed aloud. But in his
heart he swore he would never forgive Arthur for this trick. And he
knew all the time! "He's the best friend I have. A great hunter, with
a reputation which reaches from the Carpathians to the Himalayas, from
Abyssinia to the Congo."

"He is charming and amusing. Only, he is very shy."

At four that afternoon Captain Flanagan presented his respects. The
admiral was fond of the old fellow, a friendship formed in the blur of
battle-smoke. He had often been criticized for officering his yacht
with such a gruff, rather illiterate man, when gentlemen were to be had
for the asking. But Flanagan was a splendid seaman, and the admiral
would not have exchanged him for the smartest English naval-reserve