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A fine, fresh morning, with a brilliant blue sky, and the sea as deep a blue. The reeling deck of the Psyche gleamed white and trim. It was well to be a man like Mostyn and in the full enjoyment of such things. He sat there in a deck-chair, puffing at a huge cigar. He looked on perfectly good terms with himself and the world at large. The Psyche was only hired, it was true; but though she was a sailing yacht, she was wonderfully well found, and possessed everything, even to her own complete installation of electric light.
She was not paid for, of course, though her noble owner had chuckled to himself at Mostyn's offer. The latter could afford to be generous when there was a strong possibility of his never paying at all. He had taken the Psyche for a fortnight; he had the girls and Raymond Stennard aboard, but he was not so happy as he appeared to be.