“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said, flushing hotly; she gave the owner of the foot, which was in a neat brown shoe, a swift upward glance that stopped at rather bright, downcast brown eyes.  The next minute she was waving to the doctor, for the tender had already started and the gap of dirty water was widening.

“You’ll take care, Marcella,” he called.  “And, Marcella, if you’re getting unhappy, you’ll be coming back home?”

“Of course I’ll come back.  This is only a crusade,” she said, waving her hand to him, feeling that she would begin to dance with excitement in another moment, and at the same time wishing that he could come with her, for, as she saw him through mists slowly getting further and further away while the gap of water widened, she realized how absolutely alone she was.

Next moment she became aware of a tall, grey-haired lady in black clinging to the rail beside the doctor, and crying unrestrainedly as she seemed to be gazing directly at Marcella.

“Louis, you’ll remember, won’t you?” she cried in a faint, choked voice.  “You’ll try, won’t you?” and Marcella, turning slightly, realized that it was the young man with brown eyes at whom she was looking.

“Yes, Mater, you know I will,” said he hoarsely.  A crowd of half a dozen men standing on the other side of Dr. Angus began to yell greetings and farewells to the man called Louis while the grey lady’s eyes and his held each other for a moment in a passionate glance of appeal and ratification.

“Cheerio, Farne,” called someone.

“Farne, don’t get wet!” yelled someone else.  There was a chorus of cheers and catcalls.

“Buck up, Mater,” he called with another long glance.  Then, waving his hat to the others he called cheerfully, “Give my respects to Leicester Square, you chaps.”

A group of stewards in white jackets began to whistle the song and someone on the boat deck sang it in a high falsetto.  Someone behind Marcella was holding a piece of white ribbon that went right across the water to the tender; as the boat’s speed accelerated the frail thread snapped and the girl in whose hand it was clasped, a very thin, anaemic looking girl, gave a choking sob.

“My only sister,” she said to no one in particular.  “There she is, and here am I. They wouldn’t pass her for Australia, because they say she’s got consumption.”

“What a shame!” murmured Marcella, waving frantically to the doctor while from the tender came the deep, gay voices of the students who had cheered Louis singing “We want more Beer” to the tune of “Lead Kindly Light.”

The wake of the tender widened out, lapped against the side of the Oriana and rippled away; it was no longer possible to distinguish anything but a blurred mass of pinkish faces and dark clothes, splashed by a crest of white handkerchiefs.  Good-byes rang out to the undersong of “We want more Beer.”  Marcella turned away and looked right into the face of Louis Farne.  It was a very red face, unnaturally red and distorted; the brown eyes were bright with tears.