“Won’t you come back to Bombombay? 
Won’t you come back to Bombombay? 
I’m grieving, now you’re leaving
For a land so far away. 
So sad and lonely shall I be,
When you are far away from me.”

It was not the tipsy singing she had heard in the morning; it was jumpy, tuneless singing; she guessed that it was assisting in the process of shaving, for she heard a few “damns” peppering the song, which suggested that his shaky hand was wielding the razor badly.  And with the song came pity that swamped disgust and disillusion.  It seemed so sad to her that, when hope dawned upon him, he should celebrate it by singing a piece of sentimental, however haunting, doggerel.  To go there and tell him that she, too, was going to break promises, to change her mind—­it was impossible.  It was like breaking promises to a little child.  Came a blinding flash of self-realization.

“Marcella Lashcairn,” she said, standing under the white flare of the electric light and facing herself squarely in the little mirror, which showed her two scornful grey eyes, “You’re a hypocrite!  You think it’s very splendid and grand to save a big, grown-up man from getting drunk.  That’s only because you’re a girl and are flattered at his dependence on you.  If you saw any other girl acting as you do you’d say it was sheer impudence!  And you think it’s very wonderful that anyone so clever as Louis should notice you.  You’re flattered, you see—­that’s self-love, not Louis-love!  Oh very beautiful!  And you’re such an illogical sort of idiot that you want to save him, and yet you want him so splendid and shining that he doesn’t need any saving.  Oh go—­get out—­all of you!” and she waved her hand to her dreams and sent the shining Lover riding on on his quest without her.  It was just as she used to talk to the gulls and the winds on Ben Grief—­when she was having things out with herself before.  “I’ve taken the man I want—­as all the Lashcairns do unless they are like Aunt Janet and—­Oh, anyway, I’d rather be killed than be like her.  It’s rather illogical to growl at my choice the minute I’ve made it.”

Before she could stop herself she was out of the cabin; she did not stop to think that Louis might be embarrassed:  she dashed into his cabin.  He was fastening his tie.

“Louis,” she cried, and stopped breathless.  He seemed very different as she looked over his shoulder into the mirror.  Cold water had removed the traces of a week’s neglect; the razor had done a good deal, too, and a clean suit had transformed him.  His eyes were different:  there was a light of resolution in them and they met hers direct.  She scarcely knew him.

“Hello!” he said and let the tie hang as he stared at her.

“Where’s the other man who used to sleep in here?” she asked.  That was not what she had intended to say when she came in.

“He’s gone.  He was on the way to Cairo.  I’ve got it to myself now.”