A figure!—­a woman’s!—­or a young girl’s?—­not far distant, looking over the side.  The form was barely discernible; he could but make out the vague flutterings of a gown.  Was it she whom he sought?  How could he find out?  He dared not speak.  She moved, and he realized he could not let her go thus.  It might be an opportunity—­no doubt they would suffer the young girl the freedom of the deck.  It would be along the line of a conciliatory policy on the prince’s part to attempt to reassure her as much as possible after the indignities’ she had suffered.  The watcher’s eyes strained.  She was going.  He half started forward—­to risk all—­to speak.  His lips formed a name but did not breathe it, for at that moment the swaying of the boat had thrown a flicker of light on the face and Mr. Heatherbloom drew back, the edge of his ardor dulled.

The woman moved a few steps, this way and that; he heard the swish of her skirts.  Now they almost touched him, standing motionless where the shadows were deepest, and at that near contact a blind anger swept over him, against her—­who held him in her power to eliminate, when she would—­When?  What was her cue?  But, of course, she must have spoken already—­it was inconceivable otherwise.  Then why had the prince not acted at once, summarily?  His excellency was not one to hesitate about drastic measures.  Mr. Heatherbloom could not solve the riddle at all.  He could only crouch back farther now and wait.

Through the gloom he divined a new swiftness in her step, a certain sinuosity of movement that suddenly melted into immobility.  A red spot had appeared close by, burned now on blackness; it was followed by another’s footstep.  A man, cigar in hand, joined her.

“Ah, Prince!” she said.

He muttered something Heatherbloom did not catch.

“What?” she exclaimed lightly.  “No better humored?”

His answer was eloquent.  A flicker of light he had moved toward revealed his face, gallant, romantic enough in its happier moments, but now distinctly unpleasant, with the stamp of ancestral Sybarites of the Petersburg court shining through the cruelty and intolerance of semi-Tartar forbears.

The woman laughed.  How the young man, listening, detested that musical gurgle!  “Patience, your Highness!”

The red spark leaped in the air.  “What have I been?”

“That depends on the standpoint—­yours, or hers,” she returned in the same tone.

“It is always the same.  She is—­” The spark described swift angry motions.

“What would you—­at first?” she retorted laughingly.  “After all that has taken place? Mon Dieu!  You remember I advised you against this madness—­I told you in the beginning it might not all be like Watteau’s masterpiece—­the divine embarkation!”

“Bah!” he returned, as resenting her attitude.  “You were ready enough for your part.”