nce of the passers-by, but what did that
matter? Diana lit a cigarette, declaring that it was too hot for words,
and that she _must_ have a John Collins. They all ordered John
Collinses. The handsome man fanned Diana with a large palm leaf, and she
looked at him with languorous eyes.

April grew hot inside her skin. Conversation interrupted by the noise
around them, both she and Sarle had immersed themselves once more in
their books. But April, at least, was profoundly conscious of everything
said and done by the neighbouring group, and she longed to take Diana
Vernilands by the shoulders and give her a sound shaking. As for the
three men who were encouraging and abetting the little minx, it would
have been a pleasure to push them separately and singly overboard. She
did not know how she could have managed to sit so still, except that
Sarle was there reading by her side, silent and calm, apparently noticing
nothing extraordinary in the behaviour of their neighbours.

A steward brought the John Collinses--four tall glasses of pale liquid
and ice, some stuff red as blood floating on the top. No sooner had
Diana tasted hers than she set up a loud wail that there was not enough
Angostura in it. One of the men hurried away to have this grave defect
remedied, and the moment he was out of sight Diana took up his as yet
untouched glass, and with two long straws between her lips, skilfully
sucked all the red stuff from the top of the drink and replaced the
glass. Above the delighted laughter of her companions, April heard a
woman's scornful remark further down the deck:

"It is only the April Fool!"

That was the little more that proved too much. The real April closed her
book sharply and left her chair. Walking to the deck-rail, she stood
leaning over, thinking hard, trying to decide how best to get hold of
Diana Vernilands and tell her firmly that this folly must stop at once.

She felt very miserable. Madeira, fading in the wake of the ship, with
already the blue haze of distance blurring its outlines, seemed to her
like the dream she had lived in these last few days . . . the golden
dream in which everyone liked and trusted her, and her beauty was a
pleasure instead of a burden. Tomorrow she must return to her destiny of
shabby clothes and second places, with the added bitterness of knowing
her name made the byword of the ship! That was something she could never
live down, if the voyage lasted a year. The