“Yes, yes,” faltered Audrey, who was in a dilemma, and therefore more resentful than ever.  “I—­I only mean your friends have always stood by you.”  She gathered courage, sat up erect in her deck-chair, and finished haughtily:  “And now you’re conceited.  You’re insufferably conceited.”

“Because I refused to play?” He laughed stridently and grimly.  “No.  I refused to play because I could not, because I was outside myself with jealousy.  Yes, jealousy.  You do not know jealousy.  Perhaps you are incapable of it.  But permit me to tell you, Madame, that jealousy is one of the finest and most terrible emotions.  And that is why I must speak to you.  I cannot live and see you flirt so seriously with that old idiot.  I cannot live.”

Audrey jumped up from the chair.

“Musa!  I shall never speak to you again....  Me ... flirt....  And you call Mr. Gilman an old idiot!”

“What words would you employ, Madame?  He was so agitated by your intimate conversation that he brought us all near to death, in any case.  Moreover, it jumps to the eyes that the decrepit satyr is mad about you.  Mad!”

And Musa’s voice broke.  In the midst of all her fury Audrey was relieved that it did break, for the reason that it was getting very loud, and the wheel, with Captain Wyatt thereat, was not far off.

There was one thing to do, and Audrey did it.  She walked away rapidly.  And, as she did so, she was startled to discover a sob in her throat.  The drawn, highly emotionalised face of Musa remained with her.  She was angry, indignant, infuriated, and yet her feelings were not utterly unpleasant, though she wanted them to be so.  In the first place, they were exciting.  And in the second place—­what was it?—­well, she had the strange, sweet sensation of being, somehow, the mainspring of the universe, of being immensely important in the scheme of things.

She thought her cup was full.  It was not.  Staring blankly over the side of the ship she saw a buoy float slowly by.  She saw it with the utmost clearness, and on its round black surface was painted in white letters the word “Flank.”  There could not be two Flank buoys.  It was the Flank buoy of the Mozewater navigable channel. ...  She glanced around.  The well-remembered shores of Mozewater were plainly visible under the moon.  In the distance, over the bowsprit, she could discern the mass of the tower of Mozewater church.  She could not distinguish Flank Hall, but she knew it was there.  Why were they threading the Mozewater channel?  It had been distinctly given out that the yacht would make Harwich harbour.  Almost unconsciously she turned in the direction of the wheel, where Captain Wyatt was.  Then, controlling herself, she moved away.  She knew that she could not speak to the captain.  She went below, and, before she could escape, found the saloon populated.

“Oh!  Mrs. Moncreiff!” cried Madame Piriac.  “It is a miraculous coincidence.  You will never guess.  One tells me we are going to the village of Moze for the night; it is because of the tide.  You remember, I told you.  It is where lives my little friend, Audrey Moze.  To-morrow I visit her, and you must come with me.  I insist that you come with me.  I have never seen her.  It will be all that is most palpitating.”