They were not passengers, but the arrivals Miss Vanderpoel had been expecting so ardently.  They had come to say good-bye to her and were too late for that, at least, as the gangway was just about to be withdrawn.

Miss Vanderpoel leaned forward with an amazingly fervid expression on her face.

“Tommy!  Tommy!” she cried to the little boy.  “Here I am, Tommy.  We can say good-bye from here.”

The little boy, looking up, broke into a wail of despair.

“Betty!  Betty!  Betty!” he cried.  “I wanted to kiss you, Betty.”

Betty held out her arms.  She did it with entire forgetfulness of the existence of any lookers-on, and with such outreaching love on her face that it seemed as if the child must feel her touch.  She made a beautiful, warm, consoling bud of her mouth.

“We’ll kiss each other from here, Tommy,” she said.  “See, we can.  Kiss me, and I will kiss you.”

Tommy held out his arms and the magnificent donkey.  “Betty,” he cried, “I brought you my donkey.  I wanted to give it to you for a present, because you liked it.”

Miss Vanderpoel bent further forward and addressed the elderly woman.

“Matilda,” she said, “please pack Master Tommy’s present and send it to me!  I want it very much.”

Tender smiles irradiated the small face.  The gangway was withdrawn, and, amid the familiar sounds of a big craft’s first struggle, the ship began to move.  Miss Vanderpoel still bent forward and held out her arms.

“I will soon come back, Tommy,” she cried, “and we are always friends.”

The child held out his short blue serge arms also, and Salter watching him could not but be touched for all his gloom of mind.

“I wanted to kiss you, Betty,” he heard in farewell.  “I did so want to kiss you.”

And so they steamed away upon the blue.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SECOND-CLASS PASSENGER

Up to a certain point the voyage was like all other voyages.  During the first two days there were passengers who did not appear on deck, but as the weather was fair for the season of the year, there were fewer absentees than is usual.  Indeed, on the third day the deck chairs were all filled, people who were given to tramping during their voyages had begun to walk their customary quota of carefully-measured miles the day.  There were a few pale faces dozing here and there, but the general aspect of things had begun to be sprightly.  Shuffleboard players and quoit enthusiasts began to bestir themselves, the deck steward appeared regularly with light repasts of beef tea and biscuits, and the brilliant hues of red, blue, or yellow novels made frequent spots of colour upon the promenade.  Persons of some initiative went to the length of making tentative observations to their next-chair neighbours.  The second-cabin passengers were cheerful, and the steerage passengers, having tumbled up, formed friendly groups and began to joke with each other.