her our little friend, because she brings such an atmosphere of joy along with her wherever she goes.  We persuaded her to come with us yachting this summer for a very selfish reason—­ because we are disposed to be dull and she is always bright,—­the advantage, you see, is all on our side!  Oddly enough, I was talking to her about you the other night—­the very night, by the by, that your yacht came behind us off Mull.  That was rather a curious coincidence when you come to think of it!”

“Not curious at all,”—­said Santoris—­“but perfectly natural.  When will you realise that there is no such thing as ‘coincidence’ but only a very exact system of mathematics?”

Mr. Harland gave a slight, incredulous gesture.

“Your theories again,” he said—­“You hold to them still!  But our little friend is likely to agree with you,—­when I was speaking of you to her I told her she had somewhat the same ideas as yourself.  She is a sort of a ’psychist’—­whatever that may mean!”

“Do you not know?” queried Santoris, with a grave smile—­“It is easy to guess by merely looking at her!”

My cheeks grew warm and my eyes fell beneath his steadfast gaze.  I wondered whether Mr. Harland or Catherine would notice that in his coat he wore a small bunch of the same kind of bright pink bell-heather which was my only ‘jewel of adorning’ that night.  The ice of introductory recognition being broken, we gathered round the saloon table and sat down, while the steward brought wine and other refreshments to offer to our guest.  Mr. Harland’s former uneasiness and embarrassment seemed now at an end, and he gave himself up to the pleasure of renewing association with one who had known him as a young man, and they began talking easily together of their days at college, of the men they had both been acquainted with, some of whom were dead, some settled abroad and some lost to sight in the vistas of uncertain fate.  Catherine took very little part in the conversation, but she listened intently—­her colourless eyes were for once bright, and she watched the face of Santoris as one might watch an animated picture.  Presently Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, who had been pacing the deck together and smoking, paused near the saloon door.  Mr. Harland beckoned them.

“Come in, come in!” he said—­“Santoris, this is my physician, Dr. Brayle, who has undertaken to look after me during this trip,”—­ Santoris bowed—­“And this is my secretary, Mr. Swinton, whom I sent over to your yacht just now.”  Again Santoris bowed.  His slight, yet perfectly courteous salutation, was in marked contrast with the careless modern nod or jerk of the head by which the other men barely acknowledged their introduction to him.  “He was afraid of his life to go to you”—­continued Mr. Harland, with a laugh—­“He thought you might be an illusion—­or even the devil himself, with those fiery sails!” Mr. Swinton looked sheepish; Santoris smiled.  “This fair dreamer of dreams”—­here he singled me out for notice—­“is the only one of us who has not expressed either surprise or fear at the sight of your vessel or the possible knowledge of yourself, though there was one little incident connected with the pretty bunch of bell-heather she is wearing—­why!—­you wear the same flower yourself!”