“I’m rather glad you are going on to Alexandria,” he remarked in a tone of displeasure, and before she could reply he marched off to look after his luggage.

Zora’s eyes followed him until he disappeared, then she shrugged her shoulders.  Apparently one-eyed geologists were as unsafe as elementary young Britons and opulent senators.  She felt unfairly treated by Providence.  It was maddening to realize herself as of no use in the universe except to attract the attention of the opposite sex.  She clenched her hands in impotent anger.  There was no mission on earth which she could fulfil.  She thought enviously of Cousin Jane.

The steamer entered the harbor; the passengers for Marseilles landed, and the mail was brought aboard.  There was only one letter for Mrs. Middlemist.  It bore the Nunsmere postmark.  She opened it and found the tail of the little china dog.

She looked at it for a moment wonderingly as it lay absurdly curled in the palm of her hand, and then she burst into tears.  The thing was so grotesquely trivial.  It meant so much.  It was a sign and a token falling, as it were, from the sky into the midst of her despairing mood, rebuking her, summoning her, declaring an unknown mission which she was bound to execute.  It lay in her hand like a bit of destiny, inexorable, unquestionable, silently compelling her forthwith to the human soul that stood in great need of her.  Fate had granted the wish she had expressed to the one-eyed geologist.  She landed at Marseilles, and sped homeward by the night train, her heart torn with anxiety for Septimus.

All night long the rhythmic clatter of the train shaped itself into the burden of her words to him:  “If ever you want me badly, send me the tail, and I’ll come to you from any distance.”  She had spoken then half jestingly, all tenderly.  That evening she had loved him “in a sort of way,” and now that he had sent for her, the love returned.  The vivid experiences of the past months which had blinded her to the quieter light of home faded away into darkness.  Septimus in urgent need, Emmy and Clem Sypher filled her thoughts.  She felt thankful that Sypher, strong and self-reliant, was there to be her ally, should her course with Septimus be difficult.  Between them they could surely rescue the ineffectual being from whatever dangers assailed him.  But what could they be?  The question racked her.  Did it concern Emmy?  A child, she knew, had just been born.  A chill fear crept on her lest some tragedy had occurred through Septimus’s folly.  From him any outrageous senselessness might be expected, and Emmy herself was scarcely less irresponsible than her babe.  She reproached herself for having suggested his marriage with Emmy.  Perhaps in his vacant way he had acted entirely on her prompting.  The marriage was wrong.  Two helpless children should never have taken on themselves the graver duties of life toward each other and, future generations.