se. Simmy was, as ever, considerate. He made haste to spare her
the necessity for fibbing. "I can drop in late this afternoon--"

"No," she cried out, "come now, Simmy. I shall expect you. Where are you?"

He coughed in some embarrassment. "I'm--well, you see, I was going past so
I thought I'd stop in and--What? Yes, I'm downstairs."

She joined him in the palm room a few minutes later, and they went in to
luncheon. Her colour was high. Simmy thought he had never seen her when
she looked more beautiful. But he thought that with each succeeding
glimpse of her.

"'Pon my word, Anne," he said, staring at her across the table, "you
fairly dazzle me. Forgive me for saying so. I couldn't help it. Perfect
ass sometimes, you see."

"I forgive you. I like it. What message did Braden send to me?"

He had not expected her to be so frank, so direct. "I don't know. I wish I
did. The beggar wrote it and sealed it up in this beastly little
envelope." He handed her the square white envelope with the ship's emblem
in the corner.

Before looking at the written address, she put her next question to him. A
good deal depended on his answer. "Do you know when he wrote this note,
Simmy?"

"Just before they pushed me down the gang-plank," he said. A light broke
in upon him. "Did you send him a message?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't know whether it is the right thing to say, but I can tell
you this: he wrote this note before reading your letter or telegram or
whatever it was. He had a score of things like that and he didn't open one
of 'em until she'd cast off."

She smiled. "Thank you, Simmy. You have said the right thing,--as you
always do." One glance at the superscription was enough. It was in his
handwriting. For the first time she saw it in his hand: "Anne Tresslyn
Thorpe." A queer little shiver ran through her, never to be explained.

Simmy watched her curiously as she slipped the missive, unopened, into her
gold mesh bag. "Don't mind me," he said. "Read it."

"Not now, Simmy," she said simply. And all through luncheon she thrilled
with the consciousness that she had something of Braden there with her,
near her, waiting for her. His own hand had touched this bit of paper; it
was a part of him. It was so long since she had seen that well-known,
beloved handwriting,--strong like the man, and sure; she found herself
counting the ages that had passed since his last love missive had come to
her.

Simmy was rattling on, rather dole