I stood on the sloping stone jetty among the crowd of Arab porters and Europeans and watched the vessel waddle in.  Lola and I, catching sight of each other at the same time, waved handkerchiefs in an imbecile manner, and when the vessel came alongside, and during the tedious process of mooring, we regarded each other with photographic smiles.  She was wearing a squirrel coat and a toque of the same fur, and she looked more like a splendid wild animal than ever.  Something inside me—­not the little pain—­but what must have been my heart, throbbed suddenly at her beauty, and the throb was followed by a sudden sense of shock at the realisation of my keen pleasure at the sight of her.  A wistful radiance shone in her face as she came down the gangway.

“Oh, how kind, how good, how splendid of you to meet me!” she cried as our hands clasped.  “I was dreading, dreading, dreading that it might be some one else.”

“And yet you came straight through,” said I, still holding her hand—­or, rather, allowing hers to encircle mine in the familiar grip.

“Didn’t you command me to do so?”

I could not explain matters to her then and there among the hustle of passengers and the bustle of porters.  Besides, Rogers, who had come down with the hotel omnibus, was at my side touching his hat.

“I have ordered you a room and a private sitting-room with a balcony facing the sea.  Put yourself in charge of me and your luggage in charge of Rogers and dismiss all thoughts of worry from your mind.”

“You are so restful,” she laughed as we moved off.

Then she scanned my face and said falteringly.  “How thin and worn you look!  Are you worse?”

“If you ask me such questions,” said I, “I’ll leave you with the luggage in charge of Rogers.  I am in resplendent health.”

She murmured that she wished she could believe me, and took my arm as we walked down the jetty to the waiting cab.

“It’s good to hear your voice again,” I said.  “It’s a lazy voice and fits in with the lazy South.”  I pointed to the burnous-enveloped Arabs sleeping on the parapet.  “It’s out of place in Cadogan Gardens.”

She laughed her low, rippling laugh.  It was music very pleasant to hear after the somewhat shrill cachinnation of the Misses Bostock of South Shields.  I was so pleased that I gave half a franc to a pestilential Arab shoeblack.

“That was nice of you,” she said.

“It was the act of an imbecile,” I retorted.  “I have now rendered it impossible for me to enter the town again.  How is Dale?”

She started.  “He’s well.  Busy with his election.  I saw him the day before I left.  I didn’t tell him I was coming to Algiers.  I wrote from Paris.”

“Telling him the reason?”

She faced me and met my eyes and said shortly:  “No.”

“Oh!” said I.

This brought us to the cab.  We entered and drove away.  Then leaning back and looking straight in front of her, she grasped my wrist and said: