It was of her own perverse will that she accepted Rex Basire’s invitation. How often had Gaston warned her that, with her temper, her opinions, she would find ‘society’ a dangerous experiment; a game in which she would be likely to stake gold against other players’ counters! She had come here to-day to please herself. She had no right of control over her husband’s actions. Gaston lived according to the light of his own conscience, not hers. He was courteous by temperament, fond of little unforeseen deviations from any laid-down programme, prompt, always, in putting his time, his energy, himself, at the service of his friends. ‘Langrune is not the end of the earth.’ She recalled his cheery, amused tone, as he was vanishing with Linda across the dunes. ‘If the _Princess_ should start without us, we must get back by Cherbourg to-morrow. It will fit in very well.’ She remembered Doctor Thorne--his self-possession, his confidence in Gaston. ‘If my friend Arbuthnot is there, one’s fears are set at rest.’ She could imagine Linda’s witty reproduction of the whole too delicious accident when they should get back to Guernsey. Oh, let her gain mastery over herself--mastery! Let to-day’s lesson be a deeper one than can be gained by nice observance of tone, or look, or manner. Let her have learned to conquer small jealousies, to be wary of quick judgments, to construe the actions, the intentions of others, nobly. Dinah resolved in the spirit to be strong. Meanwhile, she realised, with growing certitude, that she was weak, exceedingly, in the flesh. Her breath came with greater effort, her hands grew colder and more clammy. Rising with difficulty, she set herself to search for her cloak among a pyramid of wraps that lay, disordered, on a neighbouring couch, dimly discernible by aid of a newly-lighted lamp from the main cabin. Dinah Arbuthnot’s cloak lay (can Fate not be ironical even in the disposition of a heap of shawls?) immediately above a soft, long Indian scarf belonging to Mrs. Thorne. As she lifted it, the subtle Eastern perfume, associated always with Linda’s presence, seemed to Dinah, in a second, to fill the cabin. A feeling of sickness, a sudden access of keen personal repulsion, took hold of her--all-powerful hold; for, this time, it was instinct, not reason, that moved her anger. She flung down her cloak, with a childish sense of disgust at having handled it. She sank back, passively, upon the sofa.... A few minutes later came in the steward to light the centre lamp. Seeing one of the guests alone, and deathly white, he took the commonsense, or steward’s view of the situation. Feeling queer, already? Let him get the lady a brandy-and-soda, a glass of wine, then? Settle the system before they got into rough water--though, for the matter of that, they would have a splendid passage. Sea like a millpond, tide favourable. Nothing but running into one of these here Channel fogs to be feared.