of her own. He made a reply in Italian,
raising his shoulders. Some ill-dressed, loafing stragglers on the
wharf drew near Sylvia with an indolent curiosity. She turned to them
and asked, "Do any of you speak English?" although it was manifestly
inconceivable that any of those typical Neapolitans should. One of
them stepped forward, running his hand through greasy black curls. "I
kin, lady," he said with a fluent, vulgar New York accent. "What ye
want?"

"Tell that man," said Sylvia, her lips moving stiffly, "to take me out
to the ship that is to leave for America this morning--and now--this
minute, I may be late now!"

After a short impassioned colloquy, the loafer turned to her and
reported: "He says if he took you out, you couldn't git on board. Them
big ships ain't got no way for folks in little boats to git on. And
he'd ask you thirty lire, anyhow. That's a fierce price. Say, if
you'll wait a minute, I can get you a man that'll do it for--" Mrs.
Marshall-Smith and Helene had followed, and now broke through the line
of ill-smelling loungers. Mrs. Marshall-Smith took hold of her niece's
arm firmly, and began to draw her away with a dignified gesture. "You
don't know what you are doing, child," she said with a peremptory
accent of authority. "You are beside yourself. Come with me at once.
This is no--"

Sylvia did not resist her. She ignored her. In fact, she did not
understand a word that her aunt said. She shook off the older woman's
hand with one thrust of her powerful young arm, and gathering her
skirts about her, leaped down into the boat. She took out her purse
and showed the man a fifty-lire bill. "Row fast! Fast!" she motioned
to him, sitting down in the stern and fixing her eyes on the huge bulk
of the liner, black upon the brilliance of the sunlit water. She heard
her name called from the wharf and turned her face backward, as the
light craft began to move jerkily away.

Felix had come up and now stood between Mrs. Marshall-Smith and her
maid, both of whom were passionately appealing to him! He looked over
their heads, saw the girl already a boat-length from the wharf, and
gave a gesture of utter consternation. He ran headlong to the edge of
the dock and again called her name loudly, "Sylvia! _Sylvia!_" There
was no mistaking the quality of that cry. It was the voice of a man
who sees the woman he loves departing from him, and who wildly,
imperiously calls her back to him. But she did not return. The bo