f. You've just
twenty-four hours to do it in. To-morrow she's still Magda. The next day
she'll be Sister Somebody. And you'll have lost her."

Half an hour later, when Michael's nurse returned, she found her patient
packing a suit-case with the assistance of a pretty, brown-haired girl
whose eyes shone with the unmistakable brightness of recent tears.

"But you're not fit to travel!" she protested in horrified dismay. "You
mustn't think of it, Mr. Quarrington."

But Michael only laughed at her, defying her good-humouredly.

"If the man you loved were waiting for you in England, nurse, you know
you'd go--and you wouldn't care a hang whether you were fit to travel or
not!"

The nurse smiled in spite of herself.

"No," she admitted. "I suppose I shouldn't."

As the Havre-Southampton boat steamed through the moonlit night, Dan and
Gillian were pacing the deck together.

"I'm so glad Michael is going back to Magda without knowing--about
June," said Gillian, coming to a standstill beside the deck-rail. "Going
back just because his love is too big for anything else to matter now."

"Haven't you told him?"--Storran's voice held surprise.

"No. I decided not to. I should like Magda to tell him that herself."

They were both silent for a little while. Gillian bent over the
rail, looking down at the phosphorescent water breaking away from the
steamer's bow. Suddenly a big hand covered hers.

"I think I'm--lonely," said Storran.

"Gillian," he went on, his voice deepening. "Gillian . . . dear. We're
two rather lonely people. We shall be lonelier still when Michael and
Magda are married. Couldn't we be lonely--in company?"

Gillian's hand moved a little beneath his, then stayed still.

"Why, Dan--Dan----" she stammered.

"Yes," went on the strong, tender voice. "I'm asking you to marry me,
Gillian, I'd never expect too much of you. We both know all that's
in the past of each of us. But we might help each other to be less
lonely--good comrades together, Gillian."

And suddenly Gillian realised how good it would be to rest once more in
the shelter of a man's affection and good comradeship--to have someone
to laugh with or to be sorry with. There's a tender magic in the word
"together." And she, too, had something to give in return--sympathy, and
understanding, and a warm friendship. . . . She would not be going to
him empty-handed.

"Is it yes, Gillian?"

She bent her head.

"Yes, Dan."

CHAPTER XXXII