She shook her head.

“He is the Bengali poet who was recently honoured by His Majesty with a knighthood.  Perhaps you would like to change books and see what he says?  I have marked something on page sixteen that is helpful, particularly helpful.”

“Thank you.  But take care of my book, won’t you?  It is very precious, because it belonged to my father.”

She looked into “Realization,” but its cool calmness failed to grip her at first, and she lay back in her chair, the breeze fanning her hair, the deep blue of the sky flecked with little cirrus clouds above her as she dreamed.  Presently the schoolmaster went below for tea, and she was left alone.  She had decided that she did not want tea; after this quiet place the saloon seemed too noisy, and now that seven o’clock was drawing nearer she was feeling rather frightened.

The gold in the air was collected into a great ball that turned crimson in the west, touching the crests of the waves with red as though blood had been splashed upon them, setting Marcella’s hair afire, turning her white frock rosy-pink.  Two bells sounded, and the sea and the sky grew deep blue, while shadows began to slink about the decks and stalk over the water; grey veils fell over the western sky, and she sat up straight, wondering where Louis was.

Quarter-past seven—­twenty-past—­and the quick twilight with its message of melancholy was almost past.  Three bells sounded, and on the upper deck she saw the saloon passengers going in to dinner.  Then she started up.

“He said he was horribly shy and nervous—­anyone can see he is, too.  I suppose he’s frightened, now.”

For a moment she stood leaning over the rail, her face turned towards the stairway, waiting.  Then her feet took her down the steps, along the deck, past the engine-room towards the companion-way.  Diddy and a young man in white sat on the step of the cook’s galley in a hot atmosphere redolent of food; she was eating an orange.  Under the steps Mr. Peters and Mrs. Hetherington sat in shadow; further away, up the deck, the young missionary had collected a group of children and women who were singing “There’s a Friend for Little Children” all out of tune.  She looked round almost motivelessly before she went below.  A splash of light and a volley of laughter from the bar broke through the hymn singing.  She turned quickly.  Inside the bar, which was arranged like a great window with sliding panels, stood a little man with bright black eyes, wearing a white coat.  Behind him were rows upon rows of bottles and bright shining glasses; a cash register was on the counter.  Leaning against it, his face amazingly merry, his eyes shining, was Louis, talking volubly without the suspicion of a stammer.  In his hand was a tumbler.

Marcella felt her knees getting weak, though she scarcely realized that she was frightened; she felt that there was going to be a fight of some sort, though she did not rightly realize her enemy.  Then, justly or unjustly, her fears crystallized and she had something tangible to fight, for the pock-marked man was standing beside Louis, patting him on the back and smiling at him.