It was a warm, almost sultry evening, and I was able to discard my serge yachting dress for one of soft white Indian silk, a cooler and more presentable costume for a dinner-party on board a yacht which was furnished with such luxury as was the ‘Dream.’  My little sprig of bell-heather still looked bright and fresh in the glass where I always kept it—­but to-night when I took it in my hand it suddenly crumbled into a pinch of fine grey dust.  This sudden destruction of what had seemed well-nigh indestructible startled me for a moment till I began to think that after all the little bunch of blossom had done its work,—­its message had been given—­its errand completed.  All the Madonna lilies Santoris had given me were as fresh as if newly gathered,—­and I chose one of these with its companion bud as my only ornament.  When I joined my host and his party in the saloon he looked at me with inquisitive scrutiny.

“I cannot quite make you out,” he said—­“You look several years younger than you did when you came on board at Rothesay!  Is it the sea air, the sunshine, or—­Santoris?”

“Santoris!” I repeated, and laughed.  “How can it be Santoris?”

“Well, he makes himself young,” Mr. Harland answered—­“And perhaps he may make others young too.  There’s no telling the extent of his powers!”

“Quite the conjurer!” observed Dr. Brayle, drily—­“Faust should have consulted him instead of Mephistopheles!”

“‘Faust’ is a wonderful legend, but absurd in the fact that the old philosopher sold his soul to the Devil, merely for the love of woman,”—­said Mr. Harland.  “The joy, the sensation and the passion of love were to him supreme temptation and the only satisfaction on earth.”

Dr. Brayle’s eyes gleamed.

“But, after all, is this not a truth?” he asked—­“Is there anything that so completely dominates the life of a man as the love of a woman?  It is very seldom the right woman—­but it is always a woman of some kind.  Everything that has ever been done in the world, either good or evil, can be traced back to the influence of women on men—­sometimes it is their wives who sway their actions, but it is far more often their mistresses.  Kings and emperors are as prone to the universal weakness as commoners,—­we have only to read history to be assured of the fact.  What more could Faust desire than love?”

“Well, to me love is a mistake,” said Mr. Harland, throwing on his overcoat carelessly—­“I agree with Byron’s dictum ’Who loves, raves!’ Of course it should be an ideal passion—­but it never is.  Come, are we all ready?”

We were—­and we at once left the yacht in our own launch.  Our party consisted of Mr. Harland, his daughter, myself, Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, and with such indifferent companions I imagined it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get even a moment with Santoris alone, to tell him of my intention to leave my host and hostess as soon as might be possible.  However, I determined to make some effort in this direction, if I could find even the briefest opportunity.