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Maurice, who had climbed the fence so as to get a glimpse of the interior of his home through a window, whistled softly as his eyes took in the scene within. Meanwhile Lucy Acton watched and waited on the quarterdeck of the Aurora. The hour was about half-past four. The breeze was sinking with the sun; it still blew with weight enough to keep the sails of the three ships steady. But the dance of the sea was growing languid, the rolling foam of the breaking head was wanting in brilliance of flash and friskiness of somersault; the blue of the deep was darkening, and spread in violet shot with light blue and purple gleams to the margin of[Pg 443] the reflected glory of the sun where the lines of light steeped into the richer colour. "What you mean, believe you?" "I agree with you, Acton: a fleet of men-of-war," said the Admiral..