Mr. Heatherbloom did not linger to speculate or to survey.  He had seen but not spoken to Miss Dalrymple that morning; she had smiled at him across space, behind orchids.  A moment or two he had sat dreaming how fine it would be to live for ever in such a courtyard, with Betty Dalrymple’s face on the other side, then the hubbub below disturbed and dispelled his reflections.  He went down to investigate and to retreat.  Sir Charles and his lady were in the hall; they seemed to charge the entire hostelry with their presence.  Mr. Heatherbloom walked contemplatively out and down the street.

His mind, with a little encouragement, would have flitted back to courtyards and orchids, but he forced it along less fanciful lines.  Mundane considerations were imperative and courtyards were a luxury of the rich.  He calculated that, after paying his bill at the best hotel, he wouldn’t have much more than half a dollar, or two English shillings, left.  The situation demanded calm practical reflection; he strove to bestow upon it the necessary measure of orderly thinking.  Yesterday, with its nickelodeon, or temple of wonder, was yesterday; to-day, with its problems, was to-day.  He had lingered in the happy valley, or kingdom of Micomicon, but the carriage was before the door—­the golden chariot had come to bear away the beautiful princess.

Mr. Heatherbloom asked for employment at the wharf and got it.  The supercargo of the boat, loading there, had been indulging, not wisely but too well, in “green swizzles”, an insidious drink of the country, and, when last seen was oblivious to the world.  A red-haired mate, with superfluous utterance, informed the applicant he could come that afternoon and temporarily essay the delinquent one’s duties, checking up the bags of merchandise and bananas the natives were bringing aboard, and otherwise making himself useful.  Mr. Heatherbloom tendered his thanks and departed.

He wandered aimlessly for a while, but the charm of the town had vanished; he gazed with no interest upon quaint bits most attractive yesterday, and stolidly regarded now those happy faces he had liked so much but a short time before.  He shook himself; this would not do; but the work would soon cure him of vain imaginings.

He returned to the hotel and settled with the landlady.  Betty Dalrymple was gone.  Of course, there could be no denying Sir Charles and his lady; one of the young girl’s place and position in the world could not, with reason or good grace, refuse the governor’s hospitality.  Mr. Heatherbloom was hardly a suitable chaperon.  But she had left a hasty and altogether charming note for him which he read the last few moments he spent in the courtyard room.  “Come soon;” that was the substance of it.  What more could mortal have asked?  Mr. Heatherbloom gazed at an empty window where he had last seen her (had they been there only twenty-four hours?), then he took a bit of painting on ivory from his pocket and wrapped the message around it.  Before noon he had engaged cheap but neat lodgings at the home of an old negro woman.