“Well?” said he.  “What did you think of her?”

“Miss Child?  She seems a very nice girl, and you’re perfectly right—­she is a lady.  I don’t know if she’s quite as young as you think, and I don’t call her pretty; but she is attractive in spite of being so awfully tall.  We had a pleasant talk, and I offered to do anything I could.  I gave her our address, and she is to write.”

“Did you tell her you’d invite her down?” Peter put this question diffidently.

“I—­intimated it.  She was rather independent but very nice, and said she was grateful, especially after I insisted on giving her that ‘Moon’ dress, which now I’ve sent to her cabin.  You know, she has friends in New York, and seems to know just what she wants to do, so I couldn’t thrust myself upon her.  But I think I did the right thing.”

“I’m sure of that, you dear girl,” said Peter.

And so was the dear girl herself.

Next morning the room of the mirrors was destitute of dryads.  Its once crowded wardrobes were empty; the huge screen was folded and leaning against the wall.  The dryad door stood open (as Peter Rolls observed when he “happened” to pass, about the time the Monarchic neared the Statue of Liberty) and nothing reminiscent remained save a haunting perfume of “Rose-Nadine” sachet powder, a specialty which might have been the lingering wraith of a dryad.

As the visions had vanished with all their belongings, Peter thought it probable they would be on some deck or other watching for the New York skyscrapers.  And he was right concerning four of his model acquaintances.  The fifth was not visible, and Miss Devereux explained her absence by saying that she was “lazy.”

“She’s on her own now, you know,” she added, “and can sleep as late as she likes.  But I wouldn’t miss the first sight of New York for a pound!  Some people have no romance in them.”

Up till the last minute Peter had hopes of B deck; but they were blighted and disappointed, even depressed; he had to land with Ena and her friends without having seen Miss Child.  Still, there was the pier, crowded with people who had come to wave welcome to the Monarchic.  There appeared to be a fearful confusion, and this was Peter’s first return from his first trip abroad; but he knew that the excited throng would soon be sorted out under letters of the alphabet.

Peter senior had come to meet his returning children and the distinguished guests Marconi had bestowed on him (a little, dry, thin man, who looked as though a lost resemblance to Peter might come out if he were freshened up by being soaked for a long time in warm water), and he had already secured a tame official to glance graciously into the luggage.  After shaking heartily the small bag of bones that was his father’s hand, and saying “Hello, Dad!  How’s yourself?  How’s mother?  How’s everything?” Peter was free for a few minutes to sprint from “B” to “C.”