‘Here it is, then,’ he said, to her amazement, producing the new novel from the pocket of his overcoat, and enjoying her surprise as he put it into her hand.

It looked like a trick of sleight of hand, and she took the book and stared at him, as a child stares at the conjuror who produces an apple out of its ear.

‘But I saw you throw it away,’ she said in a puzzled tone.

‘I got two while I was about it,’ said Mr. Van Torp, smiling without showing his teeth.  ’It was just as easy and it didn’t cost me any more.’

‘I see!  Thank you very much.’

She knew that she could not but keep the volume now, and in her heart she was glad to have it, for Lushington had written to her about it several times since she had been in America.

‘Well, I’ll leave you now,’ said the millionaire, resuming his stony expression.  ‘I hope I’ve not kept you too long.’

Before Margaret had realised the idiotic conventionality of the last words her companion had disappeared and she was left alone.  He had not gone back in the direction whence they had come, but had taken the deserted windward side of the ship, doubtless with the intention of avoiding the crowd.

Margaret stood still for some time in the lee of the ventilator, holding the novel in her hand and thinking.  She wondered whether Mr. Van Torp had planned the whole scene, including the sacrifice of the novel.  If he had not, it was certainly strange that he should have had the second copy ready in his pocket.  Lushington had once told her that great politicians and great financiers were always great comedians, and now that she remembered the saying it occurred to her that Mr. Van Torp reminded her of a certain type of American actor, a type that has a heavy jaw and an aggressive eye, and strongly resembles the portraits of Daniel Webster.  Now Daniel Webster had a wide reputation as a politician, but there is reason to believe that the numerous persons who lent him money and never got it back thought him a financier of undoubted ability, if not a comedian of talent.  There were giants in those days.

The English girl, breathing the clean air of the ocean, felt as if something had left a bad taste in her mouth; and the famous young singer, who had seen in two years what a normal Englishwoman would neither see, nor guess at, nor wish to imagine in a lifetime, thought she understood tolerably well what the bad taste meant.  Moreover, Margaret Donne was ashamed of what Margarita da Cordova knew, and Cordova had moments of sharp regret when she thought of the girl who had been herself, and had lived under good Mrs. Rushmore’s protection, like a flower in a glass house.