“I went to lie down a little while on Saturday afternoon,” said Poppy, reflectively; “I’d got my box packed and everything ready; when I got up it was past seven o’clock, and then I knew it was no use. Ships won’t wait, you know.” Fraser gazed at her in amaze. In his mind’s eye he still saw the deck of the _Golden Cloud_; but Poppy’s deck-chair was empty, and Flower, in place of exchanging glances with her, was walking about in a state equally compounded of wrath and bewilderment. “And you had given up your berth in the City?” said Fraser, at length, in concern. The consciousness of a little colour in her cheek which she could not repress affected Miss Tyrell’s temper. “No,” she said, sharply. “Didn’t you intend to go, then?” asked the bewildered Fraser. “I—oh, will you give me my gloves, please, before I forget them?” said Miss Tyrell, coldly. It was Fraser’s turn to colour, and he burnt a rich crimson as he fished them out. “I was going to take care of them for you,” he said, awkwardly. “I came to look after a pipe I thought I’d left here.” “I saw you taking care of them,” was the reply. There was a pause, during which Miss Tyrell took a seat and, folding her hands in her lap, gazed at him with the calm gaze which comes of perfect misdoing and the feminine determination not to own up to it. The room was no longer shabby, and Fraser was conscious of a strange exaltation. “I understood that you had given notice in the City,” he said, slowly; “but I’m very glad that you didn’t.” Miss Tyrell shook her head, and stooping down adjusted the fire-stove ornament. “Didn’t you intend to go?” repeated the tactful seaman. “I’d left it open,” said Miss Tyrell, thoughtfully; “I hadn’t definitely accepted Captain Martin’s invitation. You jump at conclusions so, but of course when I found that Captain Flower had shipped before the mast for my sake, why, I _had_ to go.” “So you had,” said Fraser, staring. “There was no help for it,” continued Miss Tyrell. “Didn’t seem like it,” said the more accurate Fraser. His head was in a whirl, and he tried vainly to think of the exact terms in which she had announced her intention to emigrate, and combated the objections which he thought himself justified in advancing. He began to remember in a misty, uncertain fashion that they were somewhat vague and disjointed, and for one brief moment he wondered whether she had ever had any idea of going at all. One glance at the small figure of probity opposite was enough, and he repelled the idea as unworthy. “I believe that you are sorry I didn’t go,” said Poppy, suddenly. “I’m sorry for Flower,” said the other. “He will be back in six or seven months,” said Poppy, gently; “that will soon pass away. I shall not be very old to marry even then. Perhaps it is all for the best—I don’t like—” “Don’t like?” prompted Fraser. “Don’t like to be hurried,” continued Miss Tyrell, looking down.