Stasia was gone. Cynthia hustled out of her dress again, turned on the hot water, whistled happily. This was going to be fun tonight. Like the old Art Academy days when everybody dressed up and the dances lasted till morning. Someone in the cabin across the corridor coughed, a man’s cough. Cynthia turned off the hot water and listened, caught herself staring with wide gray eyes at the wide gray eyes in the mirror over the wash basin. The night she had come on board that left hand door had been wide open and in the corridor there had been a suitcase, big and black, with lots of stickers on it. Cynthia hurrying along the hall with an arm full of last minute fruit and flowers and books, Chick and Judy and the others of the old Art School bunch at her heels, had tripped and fallen full length over that suitcase. When Chick had picked her up, unhurt, and brushed her off, she had noted the suitcase and a huge Ottawa Hotel paster on its side, bright with greens and blues and oranges. Chick had noticed it too. “A good poster design, that,” he had said. And Cynthia, thinking about Chick, sat down on the lower bunk and for three minutes was devastatingly and overwhelmingly homesick for New York and the studio, for Judy and Chick. Chick had, in this very room, standing on that very same rug, kissed her good-bye with his arms tight around her and wished her good luck and told her how rotten it was for him to have to stay behind like this. “Keep my ring on your finger and my face in your heart,” he had said. Cynthia twisted the pretty emerald, which had belonged to Chick’s mother, now so ill that he couldn’t get away for the trip they had planned together. It was a sweet ring. Cynthia’s eyes were getting teary when the dressing gong sounded. Goodness, was it as late as that! The pirate costume had long black trousers--full ones from Cynthia’s beach pyjamas. A wide sash of twisted red and green bristled with an arsenal of silver paper pistols and knives. The white blouse, with sleeves tacked very short, bore a black silk skull and crossbones over the heart. She was tying heavy thread on brass curtain rings to loop over her ears when Miss Mitchall pattered in, closing the door gently behind her. Miss Mitchall’s small sloping shoulders, claw-like hands and thin blond hair, now a dusty gray, were the characteristics of the story-book English governess, but her eyes gleamed brightly behind her spectacles and one felt that her spirit was unconquerable. “Oh my dear, how sweet you look,” she twittered. Cynthia hung an earring over one ear and patted it with a slim finger to see if it would swing free. In a minute she’d have to break the news to her roommate. But Miss Mitchall had news of her own. “I just heard a voice across the corridor, talking to the steward. It’s a man and he talks with a Canadian accent,” she whispered.