“You’re wrong,” said the girl. “I could live on a desert island and be completely happy.” “Then why do you stay here?” “Well, for one thing, I haven’t an island. Secondly, I haven’t any money. I live with an aunt, who keeps me and is at present on a yacht. When I saw the passenger-list, I begged to be excused. So I’ve been left here till she returns. If I’d the nerve, I’ld strike out a line for myself, but I’ve always lived soft and I can’t type a letter, so what can I do?” Kilmuir regarded the end of his cigarette. “How long have you done this?” he said. “Nearly two years now. The idea is to get me married and out of the way. But I don’t go very well. Two or three men have been kind enough to bid, but one was married already and the others. . . .” She shuddered. “My aunt says it’s my fault,” she added, “and so it is! I don’t push my wares. . . . I’m not so bad as I was. At one time I was quite hopeless. But I’m better now. At least I give people a chance—to be nice or nasty according to how they feel. I’m afraid even now I’m not very good at horse-play, but I shall probably learn.” “Don’t,” cried Nicholas. “Don’t.” The girl looked at him. “All right,” she said. “I won’t. I promise I won’t again. I don’t know why I did. Yes, I do,” she added abruptly. “I know why I did.” “Why?” said Kilmuir. Susan Crail started. Then, suddenly, she fell into long strained laughter. “From your curious tone,” she said, “I perceive that I have been maudlin. You know. Not offensively blind, but sorry for myself. It’s just that extra half-glass, you know. You think ‘I won’t drink it,’ and then you get talking and——” “Rot,” said Nicholas John. “Oh, but how rude,” said Susan. “Never mind. You’ll believe me one day. Didn’t I talk about a desert island? Yes, I thought so. I always do. But I’ll bet you never said what the last man said. You’re much too solemn.” “What did he say?” “He said it wouldn’t be a desert island long, especially if I went in for goatskin shorts.” “My very words,” said Kilmuir steadily. There was a long silence. Susan was beaten and she knew it. Hastily she shuffled her cards. These were frightening. Without thinking, she had told him her story, because she valued his esteem. She valued his esteem, because she loved him. She had told him her plight and, without thinking, she had told him its remedy—_marriage_. She had actually rammed it home—without thinking. Suddenly she had realized. . . . Horrified at what she had done, she had striven frenziedly to undo it . . . somehow—_anyhow_ . . . no matter at what cost. And he had watched her efforts and feinted and knocked them out. There was nothing for it: she must begin again. “I shall pinch you in a minute,” she said. “I tell you, the reaction has set in. The muzzy feeling is passing and I’m beginning to feel ready for anything. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Labotte arrived—a very _deus ex machina_.