hore sank into the
dark sea until it was gone and nothing was left of India save the
vaguely paler night that tells of land and the even fainter white spears
of the distant light.

For a moment they stood still, side by side. Then the fair woman
suddenly put her hand on her companion's arm. 'I'm cold,' she said,
'let's go below.'

The dark girl looked at her sympathetically. 'Yes,' she said, 'let's,
who'd have thought we wanted to see more of the beastly country than we
could help. . . . I say, what's the matter, Molly?'

Molly was still looking towards the light; one of her feet tapped the
deck nervously; she fumbled for her handkerchief. 'Nothing, nothing,'
she said indistinctly, 'come and unpack.' She turned away from her
companion and quickly walked towards the gangway.

The dark girl looked once more into the distance where even the
searchlight had waned. 'Vic!' cried the fair girl querulously, half way
up the deck. 'All right, I'm coming,' replied the woman in black. She
looked again at the pale horizon into which India had faded, at the deck
before her where a little black cluster of people had formed to look
their last upon the light. Then she turned and followed her companion.

The cabin was on the lower deck, small, stuffy in the extreme. Its two
grave-like bunks, its drop table, even its exiguous armchair promised
no comfort. On the worn carpet the pattern had almost vanished; alone
the official numerals on the edge stared forth. For half an hour the two
women unpacked in silence; Molly knelt by the side of her trunk delving
into it, dragging out garments which she tried to find room for on the
scanty pegs. Her companion merely raised the lid of her trunk to ease
the pressure on her clothes, and placed a small dressing-case on the
drop table. Once she would have spoken but, at that moment, a faint sob
came from Molly's kneeling form. She went up to her, put her arm about
her neck and kissed her cheek. She undressed wearily, climbed into the
upper berth. Soon Molly did likewise, after turning down the light. For
a while she sighed and turned uneasily; then she became quieter, her
breathing more measured, and she slept.

Victoria Fulton lay in her berth, her eyes wide open, glued to the roof
a foot or so above her face. It was very like a coffin, she thought,
perhaps a suitable enough habitation for her, but at present, not in the
least tempting. A salutary capacity for optimism was enabling her to
revie