‘I have nothing to forgive.’ But the tone was unlike Dinah’s. She, herself, could detect its artificial ring. ‘On the contrary, you have done me a service. You have given me hot coffee when I was perishing with cold.’ A smile touched her lips, and, seeing this, and led away by her evasive answer, Lord Rex took courage. ‘Whatever evil luck the future may hold in store,’ he exclaimed, ‘I shall have this moment to look back upon. “Just once,” I shall be able to say, “on board a Channel steamer in a fog, the most beautiful of her sex----”’ ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ cried a hearty voice, close at hand. ‘If you and the young lady’ll just step aside from this rope, here! Beg pardon, little Miss.’ A stalwart, rough-handed sailor touched Marjorie’s shoulder as though he were touching a bird. ‘Trouble you all to move a bit out of this, ladies! Captain’s just a-going to heave anchor. We want a clear passage down the ship.’ And as they moved, and while Marjorie was still rubbing the sleep from her heavy eyes, began one of those gorgeous transformation pageants, only to be witnessed in the fog districts of Europe. Through the uncertain twilight, a violet streak that might be taken for coast, was already visible on the port bow. Anon, to eastward, came a glow, felt rather than seen by the eager watchers on board the _Princess_. A tint of pinkish-yellow began to filter through the driving mists. Then the wind strengthened. In another minute an enchantment of solemn flame and amber rose over the distant table-land of Sark, a sensation of warmth tingled in the air. The fog wreaths sank, as if drawn down by magic hands into the waters, and Petersport, its windows twinkling, its red roofs bathed in purest sunshine, lay disclosed. A quarter of an hour later the _Princess_ was in harbour. Not a carriage, not a luggage truck stood on the deserted quays. One conveyance only was to be seen, Cassandra Tighe’s village cart. Her faithful old factotum, Annette, stood at the pony’s head. Among the smart, Anglicised young island servants it was the fashion to call Annette a little weak-headed. Tears of joy streamed down the honest creature’s cheeks--symptoms, one would say, of a strong heart rather than a weak head--as Cassandra, scarlet cloak, nets, boxes, and all, crossed the gangway. Mistress and serving-woman kissed each other on the cheeks. Then arose the question of transport. How many souls could one tiny village cart be made to carry? ‘Mrs. Verschoyle, of course, and Mrs. Arbuthnot. Oh, from Mrs. Arbuthnot,’ cried Cassandra, ‘I will receive no denial. Miller’s Hotel lies on the way to Mrs. Verschoyle’s house, and we would not for worlds’--Cassandra glanced obliquely at Lord Rex Basire--‘take any of our tired hosts out of their way. The young ladies can walk safely home together in a band--a case of mutual chaperonage. All but Marjorie Bartrand. You, Marjorie,’ said Miss Tighe, ‘are my bad sixpence. I don’t know how to get you off my hands.’