Benton and Von Ritz went to the gangway, where the yachtsman bent forward to give some direction to the boat crew below.

“Karyl!” The girl moved impulsively toward the man she must marry, and laid a hand on his arm.  “Karyl,” she said plaintively, “if you only wanted to marry me for State reasons—­it would be different.  It wouldn’t hurt me then to hurt you.  You mean so much as a friend, but I can never be in love with you.  You are being unfair with yourself—­if you go on.  I must be honest with you.”

Pagratide spoke slowly, and his voice carried the tremor of feeling.

“You have always been honest with me, and I will make you love me.  Until you marry me I have no privilege to question you.  When you do, I shall not have to question you.”  He leaned forward and spoke confidently.  “I would marry you if you hated me—­and then I would win your love!”

An hour later the Spanish gipsy girl, having shown herself in the emptying ball-room with ingenious excuses for her long absence, took refuge in her own apartments.

On sailing day, Benton, at the pier, watched the steamer stand out into the river between the coming and going of ferry-boats and tugs.  About him stamped the usual farewell throng with hats raised and handkerchiefs a-flutter.  The music of the ship’s band grew faint as a wider and wider gap of water opened between the wharf and the liner’s gray hull.

Gradually the crowd scattered back through the great barn-like spaces of the pier-house to be re-absorbed by cabs, motors and surface-cars into the main arteries of the city’s life.  It was over. Bon voyage had been said.  One more ship had put out to sea.

Benton stood looking after a slim figure in a blue traveling gown and dark furs, pressed against the after-rail, her handkerchief waving in the raw wind.  Most of the sea-going ones had retreated into the shelter of the saloon or cabin, but she remained.

Van Bristow, shivering at his friend’s elbow, did not suggest turning back.

Cara stood, still looking shoreward, a furrow between her brows, her checks pale, her fingers tightly gripping the rail.  She was holding with that grip to all her shaken self-command.

She saw the fang-edged skyline of lower Manhattan lifting its gray shafts through wet streamers of fog; she saw flotillas of squat ferry-boats shouldering their ways against the sullen heave of the river’s tide-water; she heard the discordant shriek of their steam throats; she saw the tilting swoop of a hundred gulls, buffeting the wind; but she was conscious only of the vista of oily water widening between herself and him.

Von Ritz had long since drifted into the smoking-room where the men were christening the voyage with brandy-and-soda and dropping into tentative groups, regardful of future poker games.

Pagratide, at Cara’s elbow, was silent, respecting her silence.

When at last the two had the deck to themselves and Manhattan had become a shadowy and ragged monotone, she turned and smiled.  It was a smile of accepting the inevitable.  He went with her to the forward deck where her staterooms were situated, and left her there in silence.