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- XXXI. The Regatta
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XXXI
THE REGATTA
It was the height of summer, a long glorious
day of unbroken sunshine. The British
Embassy had moved down from Rome and
established its headquarters at Sorrento. On
the balcony of the Hôtel Vittoria sat the
ambassador in his sailor cap, scanning the horizon
through his monocle for the maestrale to begin
to fan the glossy waters of the gulf. In the little
harbour at his feet his beloved ‘Lady Hermione’
lay riding at her anchor, as impatient as himself
for the start. He had designed and rigged her
himself with marvellous ingenuity and technical
skill as a single-handed fast cruiser. He often
used to say he would not mind sailing her across
the Atlantic, he was prouder of her than of any
of his brilliant diplomatic achievements. He
used to spend the whole day in his boat, his face
was as bronzed as that of a Sorrento fisherman.
He knew the coast from Civita Vecchia to
Punta Licosa almost as well as I did. Once he
had challenged me to a race down to Messina
and had beaten me badly with a following wind
and a heavy sea to his great delight.
“Wait till I get my new jackyard topsail and
my silk spinnaker,” said I.
He loved Capri and thought San Michele the
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