“For goodness sake, Nina, try to be less monotonous!”

Nina roused herself quickly.  “I am sorry, Mamma dear!  I did not think there was anything for me to say.  Please don’t be put out with me, just now when I am going away!”

They had by this time arrived at the steamer, and went for a moment to see Nina’s cabin, where they found Celeste trying to reduce to some semblance of order the innumerable baskets of fruit and boxes of flowers with which it was crowded.

Derby looked perhaps a trifle chagrined at the profusion, as Nina gave a cursory glance at the cards that Celeste had affixed to each opened box.  But with a curious little smile—­one that had real sweetness in it—­Nina picked up a particular bunch of violets, and looked at Derby over their clustered fragrance as she lifted them to her face.  She let the look thank him—­and then she pinned the flowers on.

Mrs. Randolph did not see the wordless scene, as she was busy reading cards and making characteristic comments.  Mr. Randolph had stopped to make sure that the luggage was attended to.  He now appeared, and with him Mrs. Gray, with whom Nina was to make the crossing.  Mrs. Gray shook hands with every one, called Nina a “precious child,” told her where the steamer chairs had been placed, and disappeared.  On the promenade deck Nina found a throng of young girls and men waiting for her.  They all chattered together in a group and plied her with questions:  Was she going to be presented at court?  Was she going to live in an old castle?  What was her uncle the prince like?  How wonderful to spend a season in Rome?  They wished they were going, too—­and so they went on.

But at a moment when the others were all talking loudly, John Derby managed to draw Nina aside.  He looked down at her with an expression half-quizzical, half-serious.  “This is about the time we come to the ‘great divide,’” he said.  “Your trail lies to the palaces of the Old World; mine to dig holes in remote corners of the New.  You’ll write me, won’t you?  My letters will be pretty dull, I am afraid—­same old story:  a laborer’s day, and occasionally a Sunday’s ride to get the mail at the nearest ranch.”

“Then I’ll make mine doubly thick—­so they will seem like packets.  I may even write that famous journal and send it in instalments to you!” Then suddenly the banter died of her eyes and voice and she said half-sentimentally:  “Dear old Jack!  Most of every one I shall miss you.  I hope things will go famously for you.  You have my address?”

“Yes; and mine is Breakstone, Arizona, care of Burk Mining Company.  Well,” he smiled, “good hunting to both of us!”

There was still plenty of time before the ship sailed, but Mr. Randolph was leaving.  He had been talking with another financier who was seeing his own family off, and now came up between his daughter and Derby.

“If you will go with me now,” he said to the latter, “we can talk over the Louisiana sulphur proposition on the way to my office.”  Then he turned to Nina:  “It is barely possible you may see John in Italy before the winter is over.”