He got up from his chair before I had finished speaking, but he refused to take the key.  Burns would never do it.  He wouldn’t like to ask him even.

“Well, then,” I said, eyeing him slightingly, “there’s nothing for it, Mr. Jacobus, but you must wait on board till I come off to settle with you.”

“That will be all right, Captain.  I will go at once.”

He seemed at a loss what to do with the girl’s shoe he was still holding in his fist.  Finally, looking dully at me, he put it down on the chair from which he had risen.

“And you, Captain?  Won’t you come along, too, just to see—­”

“Don’t bother about me.  I’ll take care of myself.”

He remained perplexed for a moment, as if trying to understand; and then his weighty:  “Certainly, certainly, Captain,” seemed to be the outcome of some sudden thought.  His big chest heaved.  Was it a sigh?  As he went out to hurry off those potatoes he never looked back at me.

I waited till the noise of his footsteps had died out of the dining-room, and I waited a little longer.  Then turning towards the distant door I raised my voice along the verandah: 

“Alice!”

Nothing answered me, not even a stir behind the door.  Jacobus’s house might have been made empty for me to make myself at home in.  I did not call again.  I had become aware of a great discouragement.  I was mentally jaded, morally dejected.  I turned to the garden again, sitting down with my elbows spread on the low balustrade, and took my head in my hands.

The evening closed upon me.  The shadows lengthened, deepened, mingled together into a pool of twilight in which the flower-beds glowed like coloured embers; whiffs of heavy scent came to me as if the dusk of this hemisphere were but the dimness of a temple and the garden an enormous censer swinging before the altar of the stars.  The colours of the blossoms deepened, losing their glow one by one.

The girl, when I turned my head at a slight noise, appeared to me very tall and slender, advancing with a swaying limp, a floating and uneven motion which ended in the sinking of her shadowy form into the deep low chair.  And I don’t know why or whence I received the impression that she had come too late.  She ought to have appeared at my call.  She ought to have . . .  It was as if a supreme opportunity had been missed.

I rose and took a seat close to her, nearly opposite her arm-chair.  Her ever discontented voice addressed me at once, contemptuously: 

“You are still here.”

I pitched mine low.

“You have come out at last.”

“I came to look for my shoe—­before they bring in the lights.”

It was her harsh, enticing whisper, subdued, not very steady, but its low tremulousness gave me no thrill now.  I could only make out the oval of her face, her uncovered throat, the long, white gleam of her eyes.  She was mysterious enough.  Her hands were resting on the arms of the chair.  But where was the mysterious and provoking sensation which was like the perfume of her flower-like youth?  I said quietly: