ers and Saracenic pirates,
tales lost forever in the dim mists of time; and so Stephen wandered on
to thoughts of Dumas, wishing he had brought "Monte Cristo," dearly
loved when he was twelve. Probably not a soul on board had the book;
people were so stupid and prosaic nowadays. He turned from the rail on
which he had leaned to watch the fading land, and as he did so, his eyes
fell upon a bright red copy of the book for which he had been wishing.
There was the name in large gold lettering on a scarlet cover, very
conspicuous on the dark blue serge lap of a girl. It was the girl of the
Channel boat, and she wore the same dress, the same sailor hat tied on
with a blue veil, which she had worn that night crossing from England to
France.

While Stephen had been absorbed in admiration of Marseilles harbour, she
had come up on deck, and settled herself in a canvas chair. This time
she had a rug of her own, a thin navy blue rug which, like her frock,
might have been chosen for its cheapness. Although she held a volume of
"Monte Cristo," she was not reading, and as Stephen turned towards her,
their eyes met.

Hers lit up with a pleased smile, and the pink that sprang to her cheeks
was the colour of surprise, not of self-consciousness.

"I _thought_ your back looked like you, but I didn't suppose it would
turn out to be you," she said.

Stephen's slight, unreasonable irritation could not stand against the
azure of such eyes, and the youth in her friendly smile. Since the girl
seemed glad to see him, why shouldn't he be glad to see her? At least
she was not a link with England.

"I thought your statue looked like you," he retorted, standing near her
chair, "but I didn't suppose it would turn out to be you until your
shadow followed."

"Oh, you saw me dance! Did you like it?" She asked the question eagerly,
like a child who hangs upon grown-up judgment of its work.

"I thought both dances extremely beautiful and artistic," replied
Stephen, a little stiffly.

She looked at him questioningly, as if puzzled. "No, I don't think you
did like them, really," she said. "I oughtn't to have asked in that
blunt way, because of course you would hate to hurt my feelings by
saying no!"

Her manner was so unlike that of a spoiled stage darling, that Stephen
had to remind himself sharply of her "innocent pose," and his own
soft-hearted lack of discrimination where pretty women were concerned.
By doing this he kept himself armed agains