, then, was what Mrs. Ilkington had hinted
at! But one woman in all the world could laugh like that ...

Almost at once she appeared, breaking through the cluster of passengers
on the deck and into the lighted interior with a swinging, vigorous
manner suggestive of intense vitality and strength. She paused, glancing
back over her shoulder, waiting for somebody: a magnificent creature,
splendidly handsome, wonderfully graceful, beautiful beyond compare.

"Alison!" Staff breathed hoarsely, dumfounded.

Though his exclamation could by no means have carried to her ears, she
seemed to be instantly sensitive to the vibrations of his emotion. She
swung round, raking her surroundings with a bright, curious glance, and
saw him. Her smile deepened adorably, her eyes brightened, she moved
impulsively toward him with outflung hands.

"Why," she cried--"Why, Staff! Such a surprise!"

Nothing could have been more natural, spontaneous and unaffected. In an
instant his every doubt and misgiving was erased--blotted out and as if
it had never been. He caught and held her hands, for the moment
speechless. But his eyes were all too eloquent: under their steadfast
sincerity her own gaze wavered, shifted and fell. She coloured
consummately, then with a gentle but determined manner disengaged her
hands.

"Don't," she said in the low, intimate voice she knew so well how and
when to employ--"don't! People are looking ..." And then with a
bewildering shift, resuming her former spirit: "Of all things wonderful,
Staff--to meet you here!"

She was acting--masking with her admirable art some emotion secret from
him. He knew this--felt it intuitively, though he did not understand;
and the knowledge affected him poignantly. What place had dissimulation
in their understanding? Why need she affect what she did not feel--with
him?

Distressed, bewildered, he met evasion with native straightforwardness.

"I'm stunned," he told her, holding her eyes with a grave, direct gaze;
"I'm afraid I don't understand.... How does this happen?"

"Why, of course," she said, maintaining her artificial elation--"I
infer--you've finished the play and are hurrying home. So--we meet, dear
boy. Isn't it delightful?"

"But you're here, on this side--?"

"Oh, just a flying trip. Max wanted me to see Bisson's new piece at the
Porte St. Martin. I decided to go at the last moment--caught the
Mauretania on eight hours' notice--stayed only three days in
Paris--booked