when I appeared
in the big hall of the hotel after breakfast in the morning, ten minutes
before the time at which we were to start for Rotterdam.

There were the twins, talking to Nell. There was Brederode, studying a
map of the waterways; there was the L.C.P. teaching Tibe a trick which
for days he had been mildly declining to learn; there were Phyllis and
the Viking wrapt in each other in the seclusion of a corner. But where
was Freule Menela?

I asked the question aloud, and self-consciously.

"She's gone," announced the lady who is not my aunt.

"Gone?" I echoed.

"Yes, home to The Hague. She had a telegram, and was obliged to leave at
once, by the first train, instead of waiting to travel slowly with us."

"Oh!" said I; adding, hypocritically, "What a pity!"

The small and rather pretty mouth of the L.C.P. arched upward, so I
suppose she smiled.

"Yes, isn't it?" said she.

Nobody else spoke, but I felt that the silence of Robert and the twins
was more eloquent than words.

When I had overcome the first giddy rapture of returning life, and was
sure that I was steady on my feet, I dared to dally with the subject. I
asked if bad news had come for Freule Menela, expressed devout relief
that it had not, and piped regret at being deprived of a farewell.

"She left a message," explained the L.C.P. "I saw her off--as was my
duty, since she did not care to disturb dear Nell, so early in the
morning. You see, I alone was in her confidence. I knew, last night,
after you had all gone to bed, that the telegram _might_ come, and I
promised if it did, to go with her to the station. Remind me to give you
the message--when we've started."

As she said this, I felt instinctively that I should have seen deep
meaning in her eyes, were they not hidden by their blue glasses; and
curiosity to know the worst battled with reluctance to hear it. Perhaps
it was well that at this moment Alb gathered us for a start, and that
there was no chance for private conversation in the carriage, which took
Nell, one of the twins, and the Chaperon with me to the Rowing and
Yachting Club, where "Mascotte" and "Waterspin" awaited us. This respite
gave me time to get on my armor, and fasten up several, if not all the
buckles--some of which I realized were lamentably weak.

On board, there was the usual business of putting our belongings to
rights after an absence on shore; and when I came on to "Mascotte" from
"Waterspin," already Amsterdam