very fact that she could not understand made her wonder
march beside her even in her dreams that night. She began to feel
genuinely sorry that he had appeared above her horizon. He had
disturbed her poise; he had thrown her accepted views of life into an
entirely different angle, kaleidoscopically. And always that
supernatural likeness to the other man. Elsa began to experience a
sensation like that which attends the imagination of one in the clutch
of a nightmare: she hung in mid-air: she could neither retreat nor go
forward. Just before she retired she leaned over the rail, watching
the reflection of the stars twist and shiver on the smooth water.
Suddenly she listened. She might have imagined it, for at night the
ears deceive. "Jah, jah!" Somewhere from below came the muffled
plaint of Rajah.

Next day, at luncheon, the chair was still vacant. Elsa became
alarmed. Perhaps he was ill. She made inquiries, regardless of the
possible misinterpretation her concern might be given by others. Mr.
Warrington had had his meals served in his cabin, but the steward
declared that the gentleman was not ill, only tired and irritable, and
that he amused himself with a trained parrakeet.

All day long the sea lay waveless and unrippled, a sea of brass and
lapis-lazuli; brass where the sun struck and lapis-lazuli in the shadow
of the lazy swells. Schools of flying-fish broke fan-wise in flashes
of silver, and porpoise sported alongside. And warmer and warmer grew
the air.

Starboard was rigged up for cricket, and the ship's officers and some
of the passengers played the game until the first gong. Elsa grumbled
to Martha. There was little enough space to walk in as it was without
the men taking over the whole side of the ship and cheating her out of
a glorious sunset. Martha grew troubled and perplexed. If there was
one phase of character unknown to her in Elsa it was irritability; and
here she was, finding fault like any ordinary tourist.

"Where is Mr. Warrington?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him since yesterday." Elsa dropped her
book petulantly. "I am weary of these namby-pamby stories."

"Why, I thought you admired that author."

"Not to-day at any rate. Silly twaddle."

Martha's eyes had a hopeless look in them as she asked: "Elsa, what is
the matter?"

"I don't know, Martha. I believe I should like to lose my temper
utterly. It might be a great relief."

"It's the climate."

"It may be.