“Good gracious!  Don’t gaze at me in that fashion.  I don’t look like a ghost, do I?” cried Iris, when near enough to note his rapt expression.

“You would not object if I called you a vision?” he inquired quietly, averting his eyes lest they should speak more plainly than his tongue.

“Not if you meant it nicely.  But I fear that ‘specter’ would be a more appropriate word. V’la ma meilleure robe de sortie!”

She spread out the front widths of her skirt, and certainly the prospect was lamentable.  The dress was so patched and mended, yet so full of fresh rents, that a respectable housemaid would hesitate before using it to clean fire-irons.

“Is that really your best dress?” he said.

“Yes.  This is my blue serge.  The brown cloth did not survive the soaking it received in salt water.  After a few days it simply crumbled.  The others are muslin or cotton, and have been—­er—­adapted.”

“There is plenty of men’s clothing,” he began.

“Unfortunately there isn’t another island,” she said, severely.

“No.  I meant that it might be possible to—­er—­contrive some sort of rig that will serve all purposes.”

“But all my thread is gone.  I have barely a needleful left.”

“In that case we must fall back on our supply of hemp.”

“I suppose that might be made to serve,” she said.  “You are never at a loss for an expedient.”

“It will be a poor one, I fear.  But you can make up for it by buying some nice gowns at Doucet’s or Worth’s.”

She laughed delightedly.  “Perhaps in his joy at my reappearance my dear old dad may let me run riot in Paris on our way home.  But that will not last.  We are fairly well off, but I cannot afford ten thousand a year for dress alone.”

“If any woman can afford such a sum for the purpose, you are at least her equal.”

Iris looked puzzled.  “Is that your way of telling me that fine feathers would make me a fine bird?” she asked.

“No.  I intend my words to be understood in their ordinary sense.  You are very, very rich, Miss Deane—­an extravagantly wealthy young person.”

“Of course you know you are talking nonsense.  Why, only the other day my father said—­”

“Excuse me.  What is the average price of a walking-dress from a leading Paris house?”

“Thirty pounds.”

“And an evening dress?”

“Oh, anything, from fifty upwards.”

He picked up a few pieces of quartz from the canvas sheet.

“Here is your walking-dress,” he said, handing her a lump weighing about a pound.  “With the balance in the heap there you can stagger the best-dressed woman you meet at your first dinner in England.”

“Do you mean by pelting her?” she inquired, mischievously.

“Far worse.  By wearing a more expensive costume.”

His manner was so earnest that he compelled seriousness.  Iris took the proffered specimen and looked at it.