snatched a brief luncheon and omitted siesta, returning to her
seat by the window. The fate of Shelley haunted her in spite of her
powerful will, and she sat rigid, her hands clasped about her knees,
her face white. When Warner's boat shot suddenly round the corner of
the island the relief was so great that without waiting to find a
sunshade she ran out of the house and down to the sands, reaching his
side before the boat was beached.

"You should not come out at this hour--and without a sunshade," he
said, but keeping his face from her.

"If you could stand it for hours out on those hot waters it will not
hurt me for a moment or two here. Have you had any luncheon?"

"I got a bite in Basseterre. Let us go in."

As he raised himself she saw that his face was haggard, his eyes
faded. He looked as if he had not slept for weeks. When they reached
the living-room he flung himself, with a word of muttered apology, on
a sofa and slept until late. The dressing-bell roused him and he went
to his room, reappearing at the dinner table. There he talked of his
morning excursion, declaring that it had done him good, as he had long
felt in need of a change of exercise, and had missed the water.

It was not until they were in the living-room again that he said
abruptly: "I can't do it. Let us not talk about it. The air is
delightfully cool. Shall we order the carriage and call on the
Ogilvys?"

The roads were deep in mud, but the moon was bright, the air fresh and
stirred by the trade wind that always found its way to Nevis even in
summer during one hour of the twenty-four. Warner played billiards
with Mr. Ogilvy and Anne listened to the hopes and fears of her
hostess respecting Lord Hunsdon, while Felicia, the second daughter,
poured out her envy of Medora's good fortune in enjoying a London
season, and its sequel of visits to country houses.

They returned late. Warner was almost gay and very much the lover. The
next few days were magnificent and Anne saw for the first time a West
Indian island in all its glory of young and infinite greens. Less like
a jewel than in her golden prime Nevis seemed to throb with awakening
life like some great Bird of Paradise that had slept until spring.
Warner and Anne remained out of doors in all but the hotter hours,
and the poet was once more the normal young husband, rich in the
possession of a beautiful and sympathetic wife. Anne was wise enough
to make no allusion to the unborn poem. Wh