“I will not,” he promised.  “It was only for just a moment that I felt an idiot.  It’s exciting, you know, this new atmosphere, and the voyage was so wonderful, such a perfect rest.  It’s like waking up, and the daylight seems a little crude.”

She held out her hand.

“You see, the gangways are going down,” she pointed out.  “I can see many of my friends waiting.  Remember, with your new life begins our new alliance.  Good luck to you, dear friend!”

Their fingers were locked for a moment together.  He looked earnestly into her eyes.

“Whatever the new life may mean for me,” he said fervently, “I shall owe to you.”

A little rush of people came up the gangway, and Elizabeth was speedily surrounded and carried off.  They came across one another several times in the Custom House, and she waved her hand to him gaily.  Philip went through the usual formalities, superintended the hoisting of his trunks upon a clumsy motor truck, and was himself driven without question from the covered shed adjoining the quay.  He looked back at the huge side of the steamer, the floor of the Custom House, about which were still dotted little crowds of his fellow passengers.  It was the disintegration of a wonderful memory—­his farewell....

* * * * *

At the Waldorf he found himself greeted with unexpected cordiality.  The young gentleman to whom he applied, after some hesitation, for a room, stretched out his hand and welcomed him to America.

“So you are Mr. Romilly!” he exclaimed.  “Well, that’s good.  We’ve got your room—­Number 602, on the ninth floor.”

“Ninth floor!” Philip gasped.

“If you’d like to be higher up we can change you,” the young man continued amiably.  “Been several people here enquiring for you.  A young man from the ‘Boot and Shoe Trades Reporter’ was here only half an hour ago, and here’s a cable.  No mail yet.”

He handed the key to a small boy and waved Philip away.  The small boy proved fully equal to his mission.

“You just step this way, sir,” he invited encouragingly.  “Those packages of yours will be all right.  You don’t need to worry about them.”

He led the way down a corridor streaming with human beings, into a lift from which it appeared to Philip that he was shot on to the ninth floor, along a thickly-carpeted way into a good-sized and comfortable bedroom, with bathroom attached.

“Your things will be up directly, sir,” the small boy promised, holding out his hand.  “I’ll see after them myself.”