“Yes,” returned Lord Raygan’s flapper sister.  “It’s on the writing-desk in that darling sitting-room you’ve given Mubs and me.”

Ena felt rewarded for her sacrifice.  She and Peter had engaged the best suite on board the Monarchic, but when Lord Raygan and his mother and sister were borne past Queenstown in most unworthy cabins (two very small ones between the three), Ena had given up her own and Peter’s room to the two ladies.  It was a Providential chance to make their acquaintance and win their gratitude. (She had met Raygan in Egypt and London, and sailed on the Monarchic in consequence.)

“The stewardess told me before I moved down,” she went on, “that Mme. Nadine had taken the ship’s nursery this trip for her show, and fitted it with wardrobes and mirror doors at immense expense.  I’m afraid she won’t get her money back if this storm lasts.  Who could gaze at living models?”

“I could, if they’re as beautiful as your brother says,” replied Lord Raygan, a tall, lanky, red-headed Irishman with humorous eyes and a heavy jaw.  He was the first earl Ena had ever met, but she prayed fervently that he might not be the last.

Peter somehow did not want those pale dryads sacrificed to make a Raygan holiday.  He regretted having remarked on their beauty.  “They looked more like dying than living models when I saw them,” he said.

“Let’s go and see what they look like now,” suggested Raygan.  “Eh, what, Miss Rolls?”

“I don’t know if men can go,” she hesitated.

“Who’s to stop them?  Why shouldn’t I be wanting to buy one of the dresses off their backs for my sister?”

“What a melting idea!  You do, don’t you, dear boy?” the flapper encouraged him.

“I might.  Come along, Miss Rolls.  Come along, Eily.  What about you, Rolls?  Will you guide us?”

“Let’s wait till after lunch,” said Ena.  She hoped that it might disagree with everybody, and then they would not want to go.

“Oh, no!” pleaded Lady Eileen O’Neill.  “We may be dead after luncheon, and probably will be.  Or Rags’ll change his mind about the dress.  Nadine’s dresses are too heavenly.  I’ve never seen any except on the stage, worn by wonderful, thin giantesses.  All her gowns are named, you know, Rags:  ‘Dawn,’ or ‘Sunset,’ or ‘Love in Spring,’ or ’Passion in Twilight,’ and poetic things like that.”

“Can’t be very poetic bein’ sick in ’em, by Jove! for those girls in the nursery,” remarked Rags, “especially if they’ve got a sense of humour.”

(One of them had.  The shimmering sheath of silver and chiffon she wore to-day, as it happened, rejoiced in the name of “First Love.”  It was all white.  She was being very careful of its virginal purity; but it occurred to her that unless the sea’s passion died, the frock would soon have to be renamed “Second Love,” or even “Slighted Affection,” if not “Rejected Addresses.”)