in him told
him as clearly as spoken words, that here, in her presence, lay the
explanation of the instinct which had prompted him to take his passage on
this boat.

An odd little thrill of unaccountable excitement ran through him. He felt
like a man who had been shown a page in his own life-book, and who found
the words written thereon extraordinarily and amazingly interesting. He
found himself longing, half-inarticulately, to turn the leaf; and, yet,
he knew that Time's hand alone could do this. He could only read as far
as the end of the open page before him. And that page but recorded the
fact of her presence.

Once, during the repast, her eyes met his, steady, grave, and yet with a
little note of half interrogation in them. Again Antony felt that odd
little thrill run through him, this time intensified, while his heart
beat and pounded under his immaculate white shirt-front.

Perhaps it is a mercy that shirt-fronts, to say nothing of other things,
do hide the vagaries of our hearts. It would be a sorry thing for us if
the world at large could perceive them,--the joy, the anguish, the
remorse, and the bitter little disappointments. Yes, above all, the
bitter little disappointments, the cause possibly so trivial, so childish
almost, yet the hurt, the wound, so very real, the pain so horribly
poignant. It is the little stab which smarts the most; the blow which
accompanies the deeper wound, numbs in its very delivery.

* * * * *

Later, in the moonlit darkness, Antony found himself again on deck, and
again leaning by the rail. Yet this time he had that page from his
life-book for company; and, marvelling, he perused the written words
thereon. It was extraordinary that they should hold such significance for
him. And why for him alone? he queried. Might not another, others even,
have read the selfsame words?

With the thought came a pang of something akin to jealousy at his heart.
He wanted the words for himself, written for him alone. And yet it was
entirely obvious, considering the number at the table, that they must
have been recorded for others also, since, as already mentioned, they but
recorded the fact of her presence. But did they hold the same
significance for the others? There was the question, and there possibly,
nay probably, lay the comfort. Also, what lay on the other side of the
page? Unanswerable at the moment.

He looked down at the gliding water, alive,